


The Beautiful Uncut Hair of Graves

by darth_fluffy



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: 2018 Hunter x Hunter Big Bang, Adventure, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst and Fluff, Beauty and the Beast AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Romance, Sort Of, Suicidal Ideation, just so we’re clear the major character death DOESN’T affect the killugon, minor dark continent arc spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-05-31 13:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darth_fluffy/pseuds/darth_fluffy
Summary: It’s a legend told in countless songs, countless stories: of how the humans and the faeries warred, great and terrible as all wars are; of how greatest human knight slew both himself and the Faerie King with a rose of flame.And of how, on that night, a young hero lost himself to darkness.Swearing a terrible oath, he grew from a boy into a man in one night...It’s only a legend—but when the rebellious young nobleman Killua Zoldyck is sentenced to slay a savage giant, he soon discovers that this legend is more real—and more human—than he could ever have dreamed.





	1. Chapter 1

On the floor of a castle in a faraway land, two siblings sit curled in pooling moonlight, their soft voices caressing the harsh stone walls.

“With few options left,” the brother– the elder– says, his white hair illuminated by strands of captured moonlight, “the great warrior Isaac challenged the King of the Faeries to a duel, on the condition that, if he were to lose, he would tell the King his Name.”

“I’ve heard about that!” his sister exclaims, her eyes wide, her cheeks lit by a grin. “If you know a faerie’s true Name, you can control them, right? Isn’t that how the Guardians of Habnever defeated the Warriors of Ludwillium? They got on a boat, and they snuck into the faerie kingdom like _whoosh_ – _”_ here she cups her hands, waving her miniature ‘boat’ through the air around her brother’s head– “and they kept asking and asking and _asking_ until they found the warriors’ true Names. So _then_ –“she pauses, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper– "when the day of the battle came, at first it seemed that the humans were totally outnumbered. But the faeries had no _idea_ that they’d lost control of their Names, so when–“

“ _Oi._ Who’s telling this story, me or you?” But there is no bite in the boy’s voice as he reaches over to ruffle his sister’s hair. “It’s true though. Faerie magic doesn’t work like our Nen. It’s got a lot of funny rules to it, rules no one really understands, and if you’re smart, you can find a way to use them to your advantage.”

  
“Is that what Isaac did?” the girl says, leaning her head down to rest upon her brother’s shoulder. “He used the Name to control the King?”

“Well… not quite. See, they fought for a long, long, _long_ time, and for a while neither could triumph. But as they attacked once more, the Faerie King managed to gain the upper hand, and he wounded Isaac, taking one arm and one leg.”

“All hope seemed lost–” he pauses, darkening his voice and gathering breath to release into a storm of a conclusion– “but _then,_ with one dying breath, that greatest knight released all the Nen he had. It blossomed into a rose of fire which struck the Faerie King, and he lay slain. The townspeople under his spell were freed…” The boy smiles as his sister slumps against his shoulder, her face soft, her eyelids fluttering shut.

And he says the final words, the words that _all_ of theses stories end with. “And they all lived happily ever after.” 

A lull.

The pressure slips from the boy’s shoulder. “Did they, though?”

He starts, straightening and turning to look at the sister he’d thought was asleep. “Well, I mean, _yes._ The townspeople didn’t have to _die_ anymore because the faerie king’s spell was gone. I think most of them were probably pretty happy about that.”

“Isaac, the knight, though,” the girl says, toying with the hem of her dress. _“He_ didn’t live happily ever after.”

“Well, I think he was very happy… wherever he was, because he knew he saved a lot of people. So it still counts.”

When she speaks again, her voice is soft, wandering, and she _almost_ meets her brother’s eyes. “The Faerie King didn’t live happily ever after, either.”

“Well, I... uh.” The boy blinks, then lowers his head. “He killed a lot of people. I don’t think…”

He furls his fingers into a fist, feeling the razor-sharp points of his nails threatening to slice his palm. “I don’t think people who kill lots of people get very many happy endings in stories like that one.”

Both siblings fall silent, suddenly acutely aware of their surroundings–of the castle clad in tapestries and silken rugs, of the gardens and the wall surrounding them.

Of whose name this castle had been built under.

“What about the other faeries, then?”

“I don’t think there _were_ any other faeries.”

“Well there _had_ to have been. He couldn’t’ve just been king of nothing at all.”

The boy shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t write it. Maybe there really weren’t any.”

His sister frowns, unconvinced. “Why not?”

“Maybe he was a really stupid king and nobody wanted to be friends with him.”

“Maybe he had a friend,” Alluka says, her eyes misty, damp in the moonlight. “Like my Something.”

Her brother reaches out and puts a comforting hand on her shoulder, before leaning in, his face broadening into a shit-eating grin. “Or _maybe_ it was because he smelled like farts.”

The tension between the two dissolves in a shower of giggles. _“Eww!_ He probably _did!”_

Killua reaches out and pulls the still-laughing Alluka into a quick hug before drawing back, both hands on her shoulders. “Hurry back, okay?” he says as he finds her eyes. “And be quiet. Mom and Dad and our brothers… they can’t know about this.”

She nods solemnly. “I know.”

“I’ll see you again tomorrow night, ‘kay?”

“’Kay.” She pouts. “Big brother?”

“Hn?”

“Bring a better story tomorrow night.”

Killua sticks out his tongue in mock offense. “Why? What was wrong with the story I picked?”

“Not enough fair maidens with pretty dresses and sparkling jewels. Also, no true love. _Everyone_ knows that stories with true love in them are the best.”

“Gods, Alluka, you’re such a _girl_.”

She pokes him in the stomach, though Killua can tell his sister is smiling. “I know. _Just_ like I know Brother tells bad stories.”

“Keep it up and the giant of Mitene Forest will get you.”

He has her attention now. “Forest giant…?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Killua drops his voice into a whisper. “On the very night the Faerie King was slain, a young hero swore a terrible oath. Consumed by dark magic, he grew from a boy into a man in one night…”

Alluka’s eyes shimmer, enraptured by her brother’s story.

“… _And_ , do you know what that giant’s favorite food is?”

_“What?”_ Alluka whispers, eyes saucer-round and hardly daring to breathe.

“Little girls who criticize their brother’s bedtime stories.”

His insolence earns him an elbow to the ribs. “That’s not true. You’re making it up.”

“Try me.”

“And anyway, if a giant _did_ come here, I don’t think it could get in. I know big brother Killua would protect me.”

Killua can’t help but smile. “I think he would too.”

She reaches up to pat him on the head. “G’night, big brother.”

“’Night!”

The hall around them falls into silence once more, broken only by the soft whispers of Alluka’s retreating footsteps.

As Killua turns to leave, he smiles, and etches this moment into his heart.

    FIVE YEARS LATER

The thing about princesses, Killua reflects, is that in the stories, they never died.

They grew up, and married handsome men, and lived happily ever after.

The harsh scent of blood hangs in the air- and, if Killua turned, he would see his footsteps outlined in red.

He doesn’t like killing– he never has– but in his blood-soaked life, he’s found meager ways to distract himself, and seeing the guard’s faces as this dashing young nobleman sliced them with his bare hands, as they smelled the skullflower dust on his hands, had seemed more like a parody than anything, getting him from one moment to the next.

_I’ll do this. I just have to do this._

Crushing an errant cockroach under his heel, he steps into the princess's bedchamber.

His shadow falls over her cradle, a dark cutout of a man impossibly tall and thin; it ripples as it crosses her, bending in ways no human should.

Woble sleeps so soundly, chubby fingers curling and uncurling as her eyelids flutter. A faint smile graces her lips, setting dimples into her child-round cheeks.

How old is she, he wonders? Nine, ten months?

Squeezing his eyes shut so tight it hurts, Killua leans over her cradle– and places one razor-sharp finger on either side of her neck.

One move.

One move and he'll have done what he came for.

One move and the princess will be gone.

She'll never see her first sunrise, never feel the sweetness of chocolate melting on her tongue, never fall in love or read a book or learn to dance or run through a sunlit glade, feeling the wind race wild through her hair...

And _he_ is the one that will steal it all away from her.

It’s nothing new.

He’s been playing this role for years.

_If I don’t do it, someone else will._

_She has no hope of winning the selection anyway, and the winner won’t leave her alive. It’s better if I deal with her now, rather than give the queen any more false hope._

The queen.

(He sees a moment past this one, sees grief carving up brandy-brown eyes.)

His hand is shaking, he notices; twin beads of scarlet sprout from where he’s pricked the princess’s throat.

She wails, high and pleading.

He covers her mouth.

_Just do it._

_She’s nobility–as much as you want to think her life will be excellent, she’ll always be a tool._

_A weapon._

_The person she’d become will never quite exist._

_You know that._

Looking up, away from Woble and to the moon, Killua forces his rebellious fingers to _move–_

And stops.

Behind him, an aura flares to life as its owner steps out of _Zetsu._

A heartbeat later, thick chains wrap around his wrists and throat, dragging him backwards.  

He’s been caught.

“Step away from her and put your hands in the air,” commands a voice–a clear dark tenor, that of a young man or a deep-voiced woman.

Beneath it, he hears the unmistakable _snap_ of a crossbow being cocked.

Killua complies, turning to see Oito’s delicately-built blond steward standing in the doorway, his lips drawn taut, his eyes the color of steel and twice as hard.

His gloves are off; chains outline the bones of his right hand, glinting in the moonlight as he fumbles with his– _shitty one-handed_ – bow.

The same chains that now wrap around Killua’s throat.

_Run._

Illumi’s voice.

His silver noose tightens, forcing him forwards, step by step.

Killua drags his feet, and the two men circle each other, the chain clinking between them as it’s drawn taut.

_He’s trying to put distance between me and the princess._

Killua stops short. “ _My_ , how devoted you are. I’m sure the princess would appreciate that.” He smirks, squeezing down that soft, cracked-open part of him, the chink in his icy armor that his brother and mother and tutors had all tried to force out. “But unfortunately, I don’t think she’ll be doing much appreciating after tonight.”

The other man’s eyes spark. “You know _nothing_ of devotion.”

Around Killua’s neck, the chain tightens once more, sending pinpoints of blackness dancing in front of his eyes.

Dimly, through the gathering haze, he hears his assailant saying, “Listen carefully.”

“Here’s how we will accomplish this,” he continues, crossbow trained on Killua, steel eyes pinning him to the far wall. “I want you to leave this room _immediately_. Once we’re outside, I will be asking you some questions. Answer incorrectly, and I’ll shoot. Disobey, and I’ll shoot. Understand?”

Killua takes in his orders with the sort of mild disinterest one would pay to a particularly bossy child. _He’s holding the crossbow drawn–putting extra stress on the string. He’s either inexperienced or bluffing._  
_Or both._

_Either way, I just need to incapacitate his chain hand._

Killua smiles. “Fine by me.”

He edges closer to the door, silent despite the chain, Oito’s guard shadowing his steps.

And stops– tensing his legs in anticipation.  
“I _told_ you. _Keep moving.”_

Killua doesn’t.

Instead, he _dives._

Head over heels, throwing himself into a roll. What little slack left in the chain vanishes–his consciousness fades for a blink, sending him floating, spinning–the other man, smaller and lighter than himself, is yanked from his feet–

Before his opponent can even land, Killua grabs the chain–and flares his _own_ aura.

A blue-white bolt of lightning races down its length before coming to rest in flesh.

A short, strangled cry of pain as the chain relaxes. Killua rises, breathing hard, a choker of red bruises blossoming around his neck–only to see his opponent stand.

_Godspeed._

The world around him turns bright and blurred and he’s _there_ and his foot is slicing the air, the momentum of his run transforming into a deadly whirlwind–

His kick grazes the guard’s chain hand, snaps the little finger, and _continues_ , striking his crossbow instead with the sharp _crack_ of splintering wood.

A loud clatter as its fragments spin off into the night.

Chains appear around his ankle as Killua lands and drops into a crouch, sees his opponent rising, _there–on the right_ –

_Still too slow._

Killua dodges the punch–and, with his fingertips, opens the guard’s wrist.

Beads of red fly through the air.

Ragged breathing as the guard staggers, resolutely, to Woble’s cradle, his face gaunt, shadowed in the moonlight.

_One more strike._

Killua grins.

And takes off running, flaring Godspeed once more.

His fist shoots out, a hair’s breadth away from and aiming for the delicate underside of the guard’s chin as his eyes blaze red–

Killua’s blow strikes air.

_What…_ how _?_

Killua turns. The other man stands slumped by Woble’s cradle, already several feet away.

He’s trembling, Killua notices. Like he’s ill to the point of death.

_Like he’s been shocked._

Killua sets his mouth into a thin line.  _So you’ve figured I use my lightning to move. You saw me do it, and figured the same would apply to you, so long as you touched my aura._

“Congratulations.”

“Wha... h?” The other man revives at Killua’s words, lifting his head to glare at Killua with storm-filled eyes.

Killua steps forward, heedless the sudden flare of pain from a newfound gash on the sole of his foot, and rests his arms on the back of his head. “Oh, nothing. I just realized you’re _actually_ pretty smart.”

_Pretty troublesome more like._ He’s starting to see why he’d been offered such a bonus for the removal of the guards. _Only way I can think of to counter that trick is to get in close, then use Thunderbolt when he tries leeching off me… he might read it, though–_

Before him, his opponent’s chain whips and twists and whirls through the air with a sharp _hiss,_ creating a glittering wall of chain and air.

_I’ll just have to be careful._

“The only problem is, I doubt you’ve built up the tolerance that I have.”

With those words, Killua straightens– and dives into the maelstrom.

It’s simple, really. All he has to do is _dodge._

Every crack of the deadly arc of the chain, every time the scorpion-tail ball on the end whistles anywhere close to him, he dodges.

He lets his lightning do the work for him, lets it pull him string by jagged string from one position to the next before he even _knows_ he’s dodging, before he can even _think–_

All he has to do, really, is keep walking.

He does.

And watches the other man’s eyes grow closer, grow wider, reflect back the glow of Killua’s  _hatsu..._

Killua watches the tension in his eyes snap.

The guard charges, throwing a punch out. Killua sidesteps, turns, sends a blow back. His opponent dodges easily, leaping to the side-

Right as Killua strikes with _Thunderbolt_.

His opponent goes flying, lands in a crumpled heap below the window, and lies still.

Turning away from the princess, Killua starts toward her unconscious guard, eyes wide, _En_ out and ready–

As a pair of red lights blink to life.

Killua _almost_ dodges in time.

The weight at the end of the Conjurer’s chain catches his lips with the heavy _thud_ of steel impacting flesh– and the sharp _crack_ of shattering teeth.

_Damn. I underestimated him._

Beyond the steady drumbeat of pain, beyond the salty copper taste in his mouth, Killua sees his opponent rise, eyes blazing scarlet.

_Little brother,_ Illumi mocks. _Why didn’t you run?_

_Shut the hell up._

A tiny, cross-shaped chain materializes from his thumb, shielding his heart in aura. With that, he stands again, shakes less, though his waning _Ren_ begins to fade.

Aura crackling, Killua drops into a combat stance as his opponent lashes out once more. They’re learning the rhythm– they strike and parry and trade blows, each dancing on a razor’s edge. And Killua _leaps_ , flipping over his opponent’s head in a graceful arc, sending a bolt of lightning downwards as he does so–

An arc that his opponent jumps to meet, a loop of chain in hand– that wraps his throat just as his own lightning hits the guard.

The bolt continues, leaping down the length of the chain, coming to rest along its owner’s throat. Killua wraps _Ko_ around his neck– but it’s too little, too late.

The scent of his own singed flesh rises to meet his nose– and suddenly he’s seven years old again, seven years old and watching Canary whipped in the public square–

Drawn tight by his leap, the chain becomes a noose, turning his world black.

The storm mage had smiled as Canary screamed, broken yellow teeth turned white in the glow of the whip’s lightning.

_Magnificent, isn’t it,_ his mother had said. _There are_ so _many different ways to inflict pain…_

Killua lands, _hard_ , awakens to feel pain blossom where bone meets flagstone, crushing skin and muscle between. Free of the chain, he rolls twice, on his side, before colliding with the wall with a jarring _thump._

His head pounds where it’s struck stone.

And for a second, all he can do is _breathe._

All he can do is lay there crumpled beside the baseboard like a mouse, gasping, propped up on his elbows but not yet daring to stand–

Scarlet eyes beat down on him, sizing him up, waiting for him to move.

He pulls himself into a crouch, pain blazing a white-hot streak up his leg as his weight falls on his wound.

_God_ damn _it._

Slumping as if defeated, he shifts to sit cross-legged, pursing his lips as he gingerly peels back the torn-free sole of his boot– and with it, the metal bolt of the crossbow he’d kicked, still half lodged in his foot and working deeper with every step.

Blood highlights his sole, glistening in the moonlight, dark and slick and filling the air with copper and salt.

_This isn’t good._

_If I pull the bolt free, it’ll hasten the bleeding. If I do nothing, I won’t be able to put weight on it without deepening the wound._

_Not to mention the dirt on the floor–_

“How do you do this?” says a soft voice.

Killua looks up to find his adversary standing over him, chain in hand, crimson eyes blazing with fury.

Fury, and the traces of a long-buried grief.

“You assassins... how can you stand this?” he asks with quiet furor, brow bent with anguish. “How can you just _stand there_ and snuff out lives without even feeling a _thing?”_

Sparks flare between Killua’s fingers as he leans over to pull the bolt free.

The rattle of chains deathly close. “She’s just a _child,”_ his assailant continues from above.

Killua bows his head, pain haunting his nerves. _I know._

The smell of signed flesh as he cauterizes the wound.

“A _child_. She’s not even a year old. And you– _you–”_

_“You_ would rip her life away from her before it’s barely even _begun, you_ would leave her mother broken and lost and grieving for the rest of her life and you would _do_ it– you’d do it all for _money_ without even feeling an Ai-damned _thing!”_ The shout rings out, echoing off the stones.

The guard exhales– slowly, heavily, as if the air around him has turned to stone. “It’ll always amaze me how you do it.”

Killua stands, crossbow bolt tucked in hand, and raises his head to look the guard in the eye.

He shrugs. “It just takes practice.”

The guard grimaces, ember-bright eyes blinking as he once more falls into a fighting stance.

_Not much aura left– but_ I’m _the one who’s wounded._

_And he’s withstood everything I’ve thrown at him so far…_

Killua grits his teeth. _I really hate using this ability._

_Big brother, this one goes out to you._

And Killua _splits._

The guard’s eyes widen, breath catching in his throat.

For the assassin before him has– _without_ using _Nen–_ somehow duplicated himself, the five– _six?– seven?–_ Killuas spreading out before him like ripples on a pond.

The original breaks into a run.

Closes the distance.

And buries the crossbow bolt in his stomach.

The guard gasps, eyes taut with a silent scream of pain, as Killua drives the tip deeper, _deeper,_  through skin and fat, muscle and organs–

Killua steps away, his hand dyed red up to the wrist.

A dark stain spreads across the guard’s shirt as he staggers back with tiny, aimless steps, retching blood. Through haunted eyes, Killua doesn’t watch.

He doesn’t move for the princess either.

He stands, still as the night.

The _patter_ of running footsteps, the _drip_ of splattering blood.

The guard rushers at him yet, though seeming to stumble on every step.

His eyes blaze, as if to devour Killua– and from his index finger a final chain leaps. The golden syringe on its end finds its way to the hollow of Killua’s collarbone, pricking a bead of blood.

It hurts– it hurts a _lot_.

Enough to make even him choke back a scream.

His knees buckle, his eyes water– and the guard is _there,_ free hand clenched around Killua’s collar, pulling him down even as his own strength falters, then gives. Killua lands on all fours, straddling the guard, who beneath him gasps beneath him feverishly, shallowly, brilliant eyes darting delirious-

The _creakkk_ of an opening door.

“Kura… pika?”

The woman that stands in the doorway is young, though worry has etched her, aged her. Her long brown hair spills down her shoulders from where it constricts into a pin; her amber eyes dart, wide with horror at the sight of Killua and her guard.

Queen Oito.

_Kurapika_.

Killua’s always hated knowing names.

“F-forgive me, my lady,” Kurapika rasps, dark blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. “I let this assassin slip by.”

Oito stumbles backwards, face ashen, hands flinging to the round _O_ of her mouth.

“Oito,” Kurapika says, turning to look at her, “take Woble and _go._ Nn’much time left…”

The tiniest shake of the queen’s head.

Kurapika tries to raise himself on his elbows but only succeeds in lifting his head, trembling as if it’s the greatest weight he’ll ever lift.

Across the room, she kneels to meet his eyes.

He’s called her by her first name, Killua realizes.

_What else am I destroying tonight?_

But the look they share is not a goodbye.

It’s a message.

Kurapika faints beneath him, eyes fluttering shut, raised head falling as if cut free from a string; and Killua looks up to see the room lit from the doorway– lit by an eerie, cold glow.

The glow of the lightning surrounding the Queen.

And before Killua can even _blink_ she’s crossed the room, grabbed her daughter, and ran past them to the door.

_Damn it…_ Abandoning the fallen guard, Killua stands, reaching for his _hatsu._

It isn’t there.

He limps into the sitting-room to find the queen and her daughter gone. _There’s no sign of any disturbance near the door,_ he thinks as he scans the blood left from where he’d slain the other guards, _so she must’ve gone…_

Lightning flares in the garden– on a perfectly calm night.

_Out the_ window?

The sound of an opening door.

Killua turns to see two women standing in the doorway– a short, silver-haired and buck-toothed maid, and a small, muscular blonde clad in baby-pink frills.

“Lord Zoldyck, I presume?” the blonde says.

“Congratulations. You know my name. Proves you’ve got connections. I’ve heard those can work pretty well in the absence of, say, looks or brains.”

The blonde turns a virulent red, one fist creeping up–

“Though, of course, I wouldn’t know.”

“Aaaa _aaaargh–”_

“What she means to say,” the bucktoothed one continues in a voice like bells, placing one hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “is that you’re under arrest. By order of the Knights of the Crimson Star–” she fishes out her badge for good measure– “for six counts of murder and two counts of attempted murder.“

_“And,”_ the blonde chirps, “one count of ruining a _perfectly_ good dinner party.”

And, with no options left, Killua turns, steps up on the window ledge–

And jumps.

***

The first thing he perceives upon waking is  _ pain. _

Pain from his split foot, pain from his crushed throat, pain from places he didn’t even know he’d injured.

He’s good with pain. He’s made it his reluctant ally almost since he could walk.

But on days like this, it tends to forget their alliance.

Killua opens his eyes to find himself lying in a room dyed with shadows– cold, dusty, blue-grey walls that might be white, painted with sinuous, twisting dark vines; a delicately-arched metallic bed frame with once-white linens he’s nestled in; a ceiling the color of a misty sky– and as he props himself up, he sees a chest of drawers and two lithe gray chairs beneath the shuttered-tight window, curved beyond the point of splendor, with florid feet that look like nothing so much as disembodied teeth.

And in the rightmost chair, back to the window-

“Good morning, Kil.”

_ Illumi _ .

His brother sits, black eyes dissecting the battered Killua, bars of light slicing into his raven hair where the midmorning sun creeps through the shutters.

Killua groans, flopping back onto the bed, flinging wide the arm that  _ isn’t _ in a sling. Silently, he wishes that he hadn’t woken up.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Kil,” Illumi remarks mildly.

Killua raises his head, throwing Illumi a look that could easily curdle milk. 

He’s knitting, Killua notices; knitting and almost done with the scarf, too. It spills out from the yarn in his lap and down to the floor in spools of magenta and orange, shot through with streaks of gold and purple, maroon and this  _ impossibly _ vivid yellow-green that reminds Killua of nothing more than the humors of a pneumonic.

It’s the ugliest thing in the room by far–and, considering its creator’s personality, that’s no small feat.

“…How long was I out?”

“Four days or so.” Illumi cocks his head. “Your swan dive out of the window created quite the stir, as you surely understand.”

_ I bet.  _ Memories filter back to him, as if from a dream– jumping from the widow, landing sideways on his injured foot, the twist of his knee and the sickening  _ crunch  _ he’d  _ felt  _ rather than  _ heard  _ as he tried to stand once more-

He’d passed out, he remembers. He’d passed out in the duke’s garden. In the mud beside the reflecting pool.

Illumi’s face betrays nothing, but Killua can feel the icy-sharp anger radiating off of him all the same.

_ How much do you know, big brother? Do you know how I  _ refused  _ to kill her? How I stood there, and waited, and tried to force my fingers to move?  _

Killua picks up the hot herbal tincture resting by his bedside, blows on it, then sips. It’s not poisoned, and there are no needles in it, either, which is good. With Illumi, you could never tell.

_ You don’t have to tell me I’m a failure as an assassin, brother. _

_ I already know. _

“Well, I simply couldn’t resist making a dramatic exit.”

“Of course,” Illumi says matter-of-factly. “You had already informed the Duke of Masadora and his guests that one of the most promising noble heirs of Karin is a traitor and a murderer.”

The tea sloshes in his trembling hand, staining the sheets.

“Kil…” The sound of footsteps as Illumi rises– and then a hand underneath his chin, tilting his head up,  _ forcing  _ him to meet his brother’s gaze. “Do you have  _ any  _ idea just what you’ve done?”

Killua forces himself not to shrink back, gazing up at his brother with dark, hollow eyes. “Well,  _ apparently _ , I don’t. Tell me.”

“Well, for starters…” Illumi straightens, unfurling his long, bony, paper-white fingers as if to count. “You not only failed to kill  _ both  _ your targets–”

Killua exhales through his nose. “Come on. That guard was as good as  _ dead-” _

Illumi’s blank eyes find his own. “You were mistaken. I’ve been informed he lives yet, though fortune may still take him from the world of the living.” 

Killua scowls. “Five Calamities take him, then. They’re probably the only ones that can.”

“And  _ anyway _ ,” he says, feeling like a fox against a hound, “I’d dipped my fingers in skullflower dust. On  _ your _ advice, if I might add.”

“Skullflower poisoning is not incurable.”

_“Yes,_ I _know,_ but you’d _think–”_ Killua sighs, a headache blossoming behind his temples. _“Okay, fine,_ I _get_ it, I fucked up and ruined the mission. Now is there _anything_ _else_ you’d like to add?”

Illumi gives a sad, tiny shake of his head, looking down on Killua with the sort of look one might give a scullery rat wounded in a trap– half pity, half disgust. “I think you fail to understand the magnitude of your actions on that night, little brother.”

Something cold pricks at Killua’s guts, a sickness entirely unrelated to his wounds. “Wha… what? What happened?”

“A man stabbed and skullflower-pricked can still tell tales, so long as there’s someone to listen in time.”

The ice is stronger now, curling around his gut like a serpent, Hellbell’s spawn freezing him from the inside out. “No– how do you mean? _ ” _

Illumi steps toward the window, stops, and turns. “Kil, do you know just  _ why  _ Prince Tserriednich offered such a bonus for the removal of the guards?”

Killua’s head is bowed, his silvery bangs forming a cloudlike curtain to cloak his brother from view.

“He meant  _ all  _ the guards. But of course, people of our stature are never keen on revealing truths.”

No response–Killua might as well be a ghost, how silent and still he sits.

“The seven of Oito’s guards you killed were, in fact, under the employ of the other queens. Which leaves only one truly loyal.”

“The one I let escape.”

“Exactly. Tserriednich would have paid  _ handsomely _ for a pair of elven eyes. But that is not all. He knew, as well as I know, that he possessed certain… shall we say,  _ connections _ .” Illumi pulls a needle from his doublet, spins it, watches as its golden-brown head shimmers in the cracks of light. “Connections to the Crimson Star.”

_ Fuck. _

“Great,” Killua says with a bravado he doesn’t quite feel. “Got a bunch of justice-obsessed dumbasses breathing down our necks now?” 

“I would prefer that you addressed your elder brother with the fitting respect,” Illumi says, pulling another pin free, setting its point down on the whirling head of the first. The two spin like dancers, like  _ planets _ , whirling opposite each other even as they connect. “And the ripples of your actions do not stop there.” Another needle, and another, is added to the ever-swaying tower. “The information spread, as information is so often wont to do…”

The bedsheet crumples in Killua’s hand.

“Suffice to say, I know for certain that several prominent nobles in this empire have received word as to our family’s, ah, secret trade. Several more are sure to know, given time.” Illumi turns fully to face his brother, pebble-dark eyes sinking through Killua to the floor. “And, do you know what happens when such a prominent noble family so flagrantly violates the rules of court?”

The words are  _ there,  _ on his tongue, vile and soapy and clinging, insistently forcing their way through. “They lose the favor of the monarchy. The other nobles turn against them.”

Illumi, though faintly, smiles. “I see you’ve learned your courtly lessons well, Kil.” Like the strike of a snake, his grin fades as quickly as it appeared. “And that is  _ precisely _ what happened here. Several of the nobles have  _ already _ petitioned for the Zoldyck household to be drawn up on treason and for its march to be quartered. Others, I’m sure, will soon follow suit.”

The spinning needles in his brother’s hand topple to the floor.

_ No… _

Killua had hated his childhood. He’d dreamt of leaving Kukuro Keep since before he even knew what a dream  _ was,  _ he’d harbored fantasies of killing his parents and older brothers with the very tricks they’d taught him– and on the darkest days, he’d thought he might one day use those tricks on himself.

_ Now,  _ though…

Pictures flash through his mind: once-proud Kukuro Keep, in ruins, in flames; his father and grandfather, kneeling on a bloodstained block of wood to the cheers of a jeering crowd; Canary and Amane, Tsubone and Gotoh, all swinging by their necks like so many pieces of rotten fruit…

Bile fills his throat. His eyes burn.

His mother and Illumi and Milluki would die too, he knows, and Kalluto  _ too,  _ at only  _ fourteen _ …

Would Canary curse him, as the executioner slipped the noose around her neck? Would Kalluto, his blue eyes  _ (but Kalluto’s eyes aren’t blue)  _ brimming with tears? 

And  _ he  _ will die, too, he knows; as the first one caught, he will die first as well. His family will watch as he’s led to the block, his family will watch as their son’s, their brother’s blood spills out into a red tide…

He will die a traitor’s death, alone and hated and looking out onto a crowd of people cheering,  _ welcoming _ his end- people who smiled and held dreams, who knew the kiss of a lover, the touch of a  _ friend _ …

He will die at seventeen, looking out over a world that never could have been his.

Killua leans forward, biting his lip, swallowing down the tight, hard ball that’s formed in his throat. He will  _ not  _ let Illumi see him cry.

“What happens now?” he asks, his voice low and raw and dark. “Oh, and, by the way– where the hell  _ are  _ we?”

A  _ clink _ as the door opens– and a maid, clad in a deep gray servant’s gown, steps in. Gingerly tiptoeing around the fallen needles, she hands Illumi a delicate black-and white tray. “Afternoon tea, Your Lordship.”

“Thank you.” Illumi nods. The maid steps out. Turning to Killua, he says, “Queen Sevanti’s private estate. After word of your attempt on the princess’s life reached the kKing’s ears, Her Highness intervened, saying she was ‘moved to pity for this poor misguided youth,’, sparing you from being arrested immediately. As it stands, though, you  _ will  _ still have to face punishment.”

Killua swallows the leadlike air. “Great. How many pieces will my body be in?”

“Originally… well, I’d rather not say. Many of the nobles wanted you executed immediately. Mother and I intervened, however, and succeeded in dampening their furor somewhat. Now, though–” Illumi takes his cup from the balancing tray, sits, and slowly sips his tea. “His Majesty has offered us a choice– either you willould be tried by an official His Majesty willould appoint, and most likely be executed,  _ or _ you woilluld simply be lashed– and then brought back home so that the Marquess Zoldyck canould attend to his errant son.”

“So, I’ll have a punishment waiting for me at home.”

Illumi says nothing, only stares.

_ I’m too valuable to my parents to risk losing. If I want to stay alive, this is my best shot.  _

_ Though it won’t be pleasant… _

Killua tenses, preparing for blows that won’t come for days. 

He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, running one hand through his messy white hair. “Some choice,” he says dryly, pushing himself off the bed, carefully placing his weight on his uninjured foot. “So when do we leave?”

“You’ve chosen to return home?”

Was that  _ surprise  _ coloring his brother’s voice?

“Well, I’m sure you’d be relieved to know  _ home _ ranks higher than a sword to my neck, at the very least.” Killua smirks, still standing one-legged by the bedside. “Barely, though.”

If his barb reaches Illumi, his brother gives no sign. “I think you may think differently,” he murmurs as he rises, turning his back to Killua as he tugs at the shutters. The wood and hinges clench themselves, giving a tiny protesting whimper at his brother’s touch. “Once, that is, you learn of your sentence.” 

The shutter finally complies, springing open with a  _ crack _ .

And a long, narrow wedge of  _ light _ races out– leaping across the chairs, across the bed as if to greet Killua with a cheerful  _ good morning _ , to embrace him, to bathe him in its glow– blinding,  _ brilliant _ , flooding his senses like a wave. Killua squints, turning away– but his undaunted eyes adjust.

The room is  _ white,  _ he realizes, as the little slice of light reaches the far wall– an innocent ivory white, the white of fresh parchment, the white of daisies and sunlight on rivers. The sinuous climbing shapes on the wall reveal themselves to him as  _ roses _ , their petals tinted welcoming yellow, blushing coral, passionate red. Whoever had painted the wall has spared no expense– they’ve traced the painted roses with precious metals, silver for dewdrops, copper and brass for the veins of the leaves. The foil catches the light, sends it racing past Killua on its way back to the world outside, to the distant sun beyond.

A strand of his own hair catches his eye– glowing like moonlight, it forms an incongruous match with the ten o’clock sky.

Killua starts toward the window– and stumbles.

One of Illumi’s needles has rolled to the bed side. 

It finds its way to flesh, driving intolanding in Killua’s already-wounded foot. The untested skin splits, leaving a bloody smear on the floor as Killua is brought to one knee.

“Forgive me, Kil.”

Illumi’s hollow voice.

He looks up to see his brother standing over him, inky hair silhouetted against the window and fanning out in the breeze. “Your wound festered, and even Queen Sevanti’s greatest healers despaired they would save your life. You will recover with but a scar, but I would still advise against putting weight on it, at least for the time being.”

The light is gone as his brother extends a hand.

Killua takes it, even as he turns away.

His brother helps him to his feet, lets him lean on his shoulder to take the weight off his wound. Killua stands but doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes.

“Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

His brother, with him still by the arm, begins to step away. Killua tries to resist, shifting his weight and aura to his injured foot.

“Really, Kil? Wasting aura on something as trivial as that?” Illumi’s voice is soft, brushed with disappointment. “I thought we had raised you better than that. What if we were to be attacked?”

Gritting his teeth, Killua brushes away Illumi’s hand, wraps  _ Gyo  _ around his injured foot _ ,  _ and stomp-limps over to the window. “Alright.  What was it that you wanted to show me?”

“Look.” Illumi is beside him, leaning over the chest of drawers to pull the shutter open further. Killua follows the line of his finger to see a line of matchbox-tiny thatch houses, a wood-framed steeple, the puff of smoke from breakfast fires. A town.

“Three hundred souls dwell within that town,” Illumi says in low tones. “Three hundred people born to a life of servitude to the manor lord. A life of living in thatch, scrabbling at the dirt.”

“Three hundred people at the disposal of those with the power to act.” He turns to look at Killua, carved-out eyes looming close. “And it is only by fortune’s grace that you and I are not one of them.” He leans away from Killua and pulls a needle from his breast pocket, idly flipping it between his fingers. “Tell me, Kil, why did you hesitate?”

Killua swallows hard, looking down, away from his brother.  _ I didn’t.  _ Those words would be useless, he knows.

“Because she was a child?”

On the cherry chest, Killua’s fist clenches.

“Or because you simply chose to disobey your family?”

_ Yes,  _ something inside Killua shouts.  _ I chose to disobey you. _

“Kil,” Illumi says, shifting his eyes from Killua to the window, “I think you may be forgetting who you are.” 

_ No. _

_ I’m not. _

“Do you remember who it was who brought you here?” Illumi asks. “Who it was that found you, passed out bleeding and broken in the mud?”

Biting his lip, Killua turns and stalks back to the bed. “When do we leave?”

Illumi’s mouth smooths out into a thin line. Between them, the air lies heavy, coiling around the brothers with the weight of a python. 

“It was I,” Illumi says. The pause cracks.

Killua looks at his brother through guilt-soured eyes. 

“It was I who found you, I who rescued you, I who staunched your wounds and convinced Sevanti to spare your life. It was _I_ who sat by your bedside throughout your four days of fever, who washed your brow and changed your bandages, who held your hands as you cried out from delirium–”

Killua grits his teeth.  _ Liar. _

“And do you know just  _ why _ I did all that for you? Do you wonder what made you so different than those three hundred villagers?”

_ Because I’m a useful pawn. _

“Because of love.”

Killua recoils as if struck.

Illumi glides to his brother and takes him in his arms. Killua doesn’t resist, but goes stiff, refusing to embrace him in turn.

Illumi’s cold lips on the top of his head. “I love you, Killua. I always will.”

_ Liar. _

***

Four days later, Killua kneels on the stone floor of Kukuro Castle, blood and sweat drying on his back.

Behind him, through the arrow-slit, the sun sinks, casting gloomy shadows across the walls.

He’s been waiting long enough to see the light turn from gold to red to blue.

_ How long are they going to keep me kneeling here? _

A gust of wind sends a night chill of air racing down his back, providing a welcome relief from the steady throb of the whip-tracks. Behind him, the first stars appear, watching over Kukuro Mountain and its castle with distant, frosty eyes.

“You may enter, Lord Zoldyck.”

Killua looks up to see Gotoh, standing in the doorway to his father’s drawing-room, a touch of sadness upon his face. Killua rises and walks through the doorway.

His father’s drawing room is just as he remembers it–the same dark basalt walls as the rest of the castle, yet here they have been softened, paneled with wood and draped with tapestry. The floor, too, has been tamed–a splayed foxbear skin lies across the floor, its russet brown fur a sharp contrast to the stormy gray-green stone. Above the blazing hearth, the head of a silver-furred stag gazes out, sightless eyes gleaming glassily in the firelight, ever unaware of its mortal enemy flayed beneath it. In the center, beneath the far windows, a great desk sits, easily the size of a man, inlaid with gold and carved of some exotic wood from some far-flung country. 

And seated behind the desk, behind crystals, parchments, quills and inkwells, ice-blue eyes trained on his son -

Silva Zoldyck.

Marquess of Dentora. World-class assassin and commander of many more. One of the most powerful men in Kakin by any measure imaginable.

His father.

Killua swallows, then steps forward, dropping into a deep, sweeping bow. “Father,” he starts, the words leaping, to his tongue faster than he can think them. “I  _ know  _ what I did was wrong, I  _ know _ I brought dishonor on our family–”

“Wait,” Silva commands, holding up a hand. “I have no need for you to repeat platitudes I already know.”

Killua shifts on the balls of his feet, disregarding the twinge of his healing wound.

“What I want to know,” Silva continues, drawing his fingers into a tent, “is  _ why. Why  _ you disobeyed our wishes.  _ Why  _ you saw it fit to let not one but  _ two _ targets live, one of whom promptly spilled his story to any and all relevant authorities.”

“I–”

Silva rises and turns to the window, drawing Killua’s attention to the star-studded eastern sky, the gardens beneath it, the lake and mountains beyond. “This land is not mine, Killua. This land was  _ granted  _ to us by the King. In return for our loyalty. Our service.” His fingers dig into his son’s shoulder, drawing pinprick bruises in their wake. “And  _ you,”  _ he hisses, “have showed not only the nobles, not  _ only _ their knights, but His Majesty  _ himself _ that we possess  _ none _ of those attributes.”

Killua bites down a retort. “Father, I  _ know,  _ but–”

“But what?” Silva arches an eyebrow.  _ “What  _ reason could you  _ possibly  _ give for potentially ending not only our lordship, but our lives with it?”

_ Here it comes.  _ The maelstrom of words he’s been nursing– through his convalescence, through the whippings and the long carriage ride that followed– will break, and soon.

“Because,” Killua says, his voice a soft backdrop to the crackling fireplace, “she didn’t deserve to die.”

“I see.” There is no change in his father’s face, but the black shine of ice in his voice twists Killua's gut.

“Killua,” Silva continues, turning to place one hand on his son’s shoulder, “I think you misunderstand. It’s not a question of  _ deserve.  _ It’s simply our line of work. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“So you would let an innocent girl die,” he says, stomach twisting, eyes dark and shadowed. “Just to line your coffers.”

“Why are you surprised? You’ve known that all your life.”

Killua bites his lip.  _ And when you tortured me, when Milluki whipped me, beat me, when Mother forced me to drink poison until I’d be sick for hours, when you forced me to kill Wolf... was that all for a few fucking Jenny too? Or did I  _ deserve _ that? _

At his side, his bladellike fingers clench around nothing.

Blood spatters on the floor.

Head bowed, he stalks back to the doorway, only to be stopped by his father’s commanded, _ “Killua.” _

Silva’s voice carves the sudden icy stillness. “I believe I have yet to dismiss you.”

Killua turns and slouches back inside, shoulders slumped, arms across his chest. “Oh _ ,  _ forgive me–”

His father’s eyes find his own, glistening with disappointment, rage, and-

_ Understanding? _

“Sit down, Killua,” he says, nodding to the stools by the hearth. “We have still much to discuss.”

_ Father…  _ Killua blinks, wide-eyed.  _ What are you… _

Mutely, he complies.

When his father’s voice comes, it is soft, forgiving, the sound of rain after lightning. “Killua, what is it that you want?”

Killua freezes, adrenaline surging his veins.  _ Could this be real?  _

Dimly, he feels himself squeeze the inside of his wrist.  _ Is this really happening? _

“You  _ are  _ aware, of course, that even had we not raised you to be an assassin, you would carry a heavy burden regardless. The life of a noble heir is not something to be trifled with.”

“Yes.”

“You are aware that you would have had other duties, other responsibilities from an early age.”

“I understand, Father, but–”

“So, tell, me, what exactly  _ is _ it that you want?”

Killua bows his head. “I…”

“I want to know what life is. Outside of this castle, I mean.” Something  _ breaks  _ inside of him, long-held words gushing from the crack. “I want to look at someone and go up and  _ talk _ to them without worrying if I should kill them, if they’d kill me. I just…”

“I feel there’s  _ something _ out there, beyond these castle walls, something beautiful and bright and shining. Some place where I’m not a Zoldyck, not a murderer, not anyone’s son.”

The next words come out choked. “I–I don’t want to be alone.”

There. 

He's said it.

The words hang in the air.

Killua lets out a shaky breath, bracing himself for disappointment on his father’s face. “I’m not certain if a place like that exists… but I figure looking for it can’t be any worse than my life here.” He looks at his father through blurred eyes, forcing a smirk on his face. “Congratulations. You got your answer. Happy?”

“Hmm.” His father’s mouth sets into a thin line, then relaxes. “I see,” he says, half to Killua and half to himself. “This actually works out quite nicely, in fact…”

“Wha– how do you mean?”

“Illumi told you about your sentencing, did he not?”

“Yes.” Killua swallows hard. “I’m well aware that the other nobles and His Majesty alike want me to see consequences for my actions.”

“Well then, I’m sure you’ll be quite happy indeed to learn of your punishment.” Silva reaches in his drawer and pulls out a tattered square of yellowed vellum.

A map.

He beckons Killua closer, unfolding the map as he does so. “See there?” he says, pointing to a tiny strip at the bottom, where the southernmost reaches of Kakin melt into the Unknown Lands. The charcoal lies thick and dark there, broken by the tiny sawteeth of mountains. Beside it, a smudged Hellbell curls, ready to drive to madness all who enter. 

“Mitene Forest… why? Oh,  _ don’t _ tell me. You’re planning on sending me to go meditate in a forest with a bunch of dead faeries for company.”

“The fae are not the only danger in those woods.” Silva’s eyes glitter in the firelight as he looks at Killua. “Tell me, do you know what  _ else _ happened the night of that storied battle?”

A memory flashes in his mind– him at thirteen, nested in a mound of blankets in the castle floor, his voice soft as he told the story, someone’s–  _ Kalluto’s?–  _ fingers gripping the hem of her–  _ his–  _ dress, eyes wide and misty in the moonlight-

_ Consumed by dark magic, he grew from a boy into a man in one night… _

A chill runs down his spine. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

_ “But–” _

“It’s the perfect answer to our problems,” Silva says, rising and striding to the window on the far wall.  _ “You _ kill the giant, that horrible beast that has plagued the people of Mitene for nigh on five years, and bring back his head. Word gets out. We start telling the other nobles that while you fell to the life of a sellsword out of some… oh, petty misguided desire for adventure, you’ve since changed your ways, liberating the villagers of Mitene at  _ tremendous  _ risk to yourself as proof. Suddenly,  _ you’re _ a hero, the Zoldyck secret trade stays secret, and  _ we _ have our power and influence back. Why, Nasubi  _ himself _ might offer you one of his daughters’ hands.” He offers Killua a smile of knives. “A splendid solution, wouldn’t you say?”

“…And if I don’t make it back?”

“Are you to stand here and tell me that my son is  _ such _ a coward he’d run from a fight before it even begins?”

Killua’s eyes go dark as he folds his arms against his chest _. _

“Moreover, you will get what  _ you _ desire as well. You will have a chance to explore the world outside of Kukuro Castle. You will travel in areas where our vaunted name bears little recognizance. You might…” Silva crosses back to his desk, draws a quill pen, then taps it against his lips. “Why, you might even make those friends that you seem to so desperately crave.”

“What’s more,” he continues, “if you succeed in slaying this giant… well, that’s a mission like any other, is it not? Just a touch more socially acceptable than the rest.”

Killua blinks, stunned. “How do you mean, Father?”

“I’m saying that if you return, you’ll have demonstrated your skill as an assassin beyond doubt. You would have proved your skill equal to that of your brothers’– and deserving of privileges equal in return.”

_Equal_ _in return_ … Killua’s head spins, visions of respect, independence, _freedom_ dancing before his eyes. 

_ Those friends you so desperately crave… _

His heart feels  _ light;  _ feather-light, cloud-light.   

_ This is no use,  _ Illumi whispers in his mind.  _ You’ll die. You’ll die alone.  _

_ Not if I can help it. _

“Okay,” he says, leaning forward, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

_ You don’t need friends– and who would ever want to befriend  _ you?

“How soon do I leave?”

***

One week later, he sits below a ridge crowned with snows.

The road he’s following has crested a frigid pass, studded with barren icy rock, before dropping just as steeply into the high mead where he’s stopped.

The ground below him is spongy with meltwater and clad in moss and lichens– and ghosts of grass. Here and there, an early flower peeks its head above the lingering snow, lending a welcome splash of color to the gray peaks and equally barren sky. At this height, no trees grow, save for the bravest and most defiant of all, their backs twisted by storms; but below him, the ground drops into a great bowl of  _ green–  _ the rich, spiky, hunter-green of pines, damasked with the warm, creamy brown of oaks yet to lose their leaves and the light, lacy green of fledgling spring growth.

Flowers dot this landscape, too– the sweet pink of cherry trees, the lacy white of apple and magnolia, scattered through the thick expanse of green that stretches out before him like dew on a leaf.

_ So this is Mitene. _

It certainly doesn’t  _ look _ like the kind of place where great tragedies are made, where ghosts and giants stalk, where death shadows every waking moment. It looks like, rather, a normal forest; the sort of forest where fawns are born, where brooks leap, where children laugh and grow and play…

The sort of place where a killer would never belong.

If he listens closely, he can hear Illumi’s voice on the wind.

He finishes the last of his makeshift traveling lunch (some nuts, and bread and cheese with honey– so,  _ so  _ much honey), and stands, turning to the sleek black warhorse beside him. “Guess we better get going,” he says to no one in particular, then turns and steps up to put one foot in the stirrup. His mount tenses, stamping in protest as if to say  _ I’m a  _ war _ horse, not a  _ pack _ mule. _

Granted, between her full armor and her rider’s mail, weapons, bedroll, and provisions for nearly two weeks, the distinction by this point is rather arbitrary.

“Yeah, yeah, Squall, I know.” Killua sighs. 

The mare nickers, perhaps surprised at being called  _ Squall _ for once instead of the usual  _ shithead  _ or  _ asshole _ . 

He swings into the saddle, taking care to arrange his lance by his side. “But unless you find spending the rest of our lives on this shitty excuse for a meadow a  _ terribly _ enjoyable prospect, the let’s go.” He digs his heels into her side and gives the rein a sharp  _ snap–  _  and together, the two of them plunge into the forest of giants.

***

Or  _ try _ to plunge, at the very least.

The road before them can’t really be called a  _ road.  _ More like a _ path  _ if Killua was to be generous,  _ shithole death trap  _ if he wasn’t.

Evidently, Squall feels the same way– she’s shaken off her rider three times on this stretch of trail alone, and every time, Killua’s tailbone seems to have developed an uncanny ability for finding rocks and tree stumps to land on.

_ It’s a little annoying. _

Squall settles into an exaggerated, glacial trot, as if to grind her master’s already-sore backside into dust.

_ Okay, more than a little. _

The forest around him is eerily still– the deep green of the pines loom on either side of the trail like soldiers at attention, thick and dense enough to strangle most any hopeful shrubbery; though, every so often, he catches the sight of a valiant blossom poking its head up from the carpet of needles. Errant patches of hard, beaten snow dot the trail, tracing the shadows in ice. There is no movement save him– no birds sing; no squirrels or marmots cross his path; no rustling undergrowth betrays the existence of creatures unseen. Even the wind refuses to blow, the pine-fresh mountain air lying thick and silent upon the hillside.

The only sound is the steady pounding of Squall’s hoofbeats– and his own beating heart.

As they travel, the ostensible road levels out from its perilous switchbacks, traversing the slope instead of plunging. Squall’s hooves clatter on stone as she fords a tiny, granite-lined stream- then they rise into a clearing, the trees around them falling away into a commanding view. Now that they’ve descended, the mountaintops are softer, clad in the deep green of pines instead of rock and ice.

Killua’s eyes trace the path, the ridge– and stops.

One of the trees is  _ moving. _

Slenderer and tighter than the rest, it ambles down the ridgeline, its whiplike, green-black tip swaying in the absent breeze.

Killua starts, clenching his  _ Ten,  _ his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

_ What  _ is _ this place? _


	2. Chapter 2

Night comes, shrouding Killua and Squall in darkness. They press on, lit only by the glow of Killua’s lantern and the dying half-moon.

_Damn it…_

Killua frowns. Every map he’s seen had indicated there would be a village right along this stretch; yet as the road unfolds before him in the desolate night, he sees nothing—no signpost, no farm, no distant light.

If nothing else, he thinks, the forest is livelier now at least, the wind playing in the branches, the sounds of scuffling night-creatures filling the undergrowth. Glowing eyes stare at him from the bushes, never moving yet following him all the same. In the distance, thunder rumbles, and shimmering, gauzy clouds slide across the face of the half-eaten moon.

_It must be here_ somewhere. _Or the maps must be wrong._

_Yeah,_ Killua thinks, straightening in the saddle with stubborn surety, his pride as a navigator restored. _One of those two._

Though as the trail deepens, becoming more overgrown with each and every stretch, that confidence begins to waver—before turning tail and running entirely.

Squall whinnies, as if to say, _Told you so._

_“Okay,_ I made a wrong turn,” Killua admits begrudgingly, pulling her to the side of the trail before swinging himself out of the saddle. “Fine. You can stop making that noise now– _hey!”_

For at this moment, Squall has realized the spun-sugar texture of her master’s hair.

She’s grabbed a mouthful of it and now happily chews away, heedless of her master’s protest. Killua manages to extricate his locks—but not without leaving a sizable chunk in her mouth. “I _get_ it, I’m a shitty navigator.” Killua smirks. “But I bet that doesn’t taste like grass _too_ much, now does it?”

Squall gives him a _look_ , spitting out his hair as if its disappointingly _un_ grasslike taste matched his character.

“...Dumbass,” Killua says, only half bitingly. Setting his lantern down on the ground, he stands and reaches for the saddlebag.

What awaits him is the ghost of his hasty, disorganized packing job, come back to haunt him in all his glory.

Though, in all honesty, one might say it’s less of a packing job and more like he’s created an accidental puzzle: find the folded square of parchment in this bottomless, crowded bag. Sighing, he begins to unpack, setting down first his travel blanket, then the first of several bags of foodstuffs (that contain _far_ more sweets than necessary), then a spare set of linen underclothes, a deep burgundy surcoat, the little silver sash with black cat charm he’d been given, somewhere along the way, a fine tunic colored a deep indigo and embroidered with gold…

Before long, Squall finds herself standing in a circle of men’s fashions that would not be out of place in the Duke of Yorknew’s court.

_Okay, so_ maybe _I overpacked a_ little…

“Ah, here it is.”

He reaches in and pulls out the square of parchment—only to have it ripped from his hand by a violent gust of wind.

The candle in his lamp flickers, then goes out.

Cursing under his breath, Killua bends and sets the lantern down, groping for his spare candles in the sudden darkness.

Above him, Squall gives a low, terse whinny.

_Danger._

Hesitantly, Killua rises. By the light of his _hatsu,_ he sees the mare standing completely still, ears pricked, one glittering eye turned towards the dark woods.

“What’re you looking at?” Killua says, hesitantly extending his _En._

Nothing.

“C’mon now, _don’t_ tell me you’re a warhorse that’s scared of the dark.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t turn.

One eye fixed to the woods, Killua bends down for the candles.

With spidery feet, the silence crawls.

He takes one candle from the bag, puts the wick between two fingers to light it. The flame springs to life—right as the circle of clouds threatening the moon closes.

An air-shattering _boom_ of thunder—and then sudden, blinding rain.

The fledgling flame disappears.

And above the roaring wind, above the twin poundings of rain and his heart, he hears a rustle.

The sound of something _very large_ moving through the undergrowth.

Killua freezes, then swivels on his heels in the direction of the sound—but Squall is between them, forelegs raised in a half rear.

And, without warning, she starts.

Ears back, teeth bared, she spins on her hindquarters and races away. Killua flares _Godspeed,_ grabs his suffering clothes, and takes off in a dead sprint after her.

He flies through the night, a human shooting star; leaping over rocks, stumps, leaving a neat slice through the undergrowth in his wake. The driving rain bites at his face, hard enough to raise welts.

The dark shadows of trees break into a clearing. Framed by lightning, he sees Squall stamping nervously, flanks heaving– and by her side, a barn.

Or what _used_ to be a barn, at any rate– its frayed walls sag inwards, buckling under the weight of the tattered, slumping roof. Boards litter the grass, and the door hangs by one rotten hinge, valiantly guarding nothing.

“Well, it’s not my _first_ choice in lodgings—” Killua lets his grimace show, pacing the clearing for a safe place to set down his belongings— “but it’ll do.” He crosses the field to Squall, muttering half to himself, “Unless you got any better ideas?”

He takes her reins to lead her in.

And is met by a wall of force.

The big mare digs her heels in and tosses her head, every muscle wire-taut.

Killua catches sight of her eyes. They’re rimmed with white.

Frost finds his veins. _Run._

“Hey, idiot,” Killua says with forced lightness. “You’re being kind of a shitty excuse for a warhorse, aren’t you? It’s just a barn.” Even lending his aura to his own considerable strength, he still can’t budge her. “Fine. I’ll go in myself. And show you that _everything’s fine_ . I know it’s not what you’re used to, it’s not what _I’m_ used to, either, but if you want to stand out in the rain all night, be my guest.” He starts toward the barn– slowly, hesitantly reaching with _En-_

And feeling nothing once more.

There is no life in the barn.

“See?” he says, beckoning to Squall. _“_ Everything’s _fine. ”_ He pulls at the lopsided door– the wood disintegrates in his hand– and steps into the gloom of the barn.

If anything, the blackness is even deeper than outside– a blackness the holes in the roof do nothing to break. He still has his candle in hand, he notices; though his _hatsu_ has melted the wax around his fingers, it’s still largely intact.

He kneels, placing the candle on the ground before him, one finger on either side of the tip. Blue-white sparks jump between his fingers, catching the wick. At first nothing, then a ghostly trail of smoke—and then the candle springs to life, enveloping Killua in golden light.

Killua, and the barn’s other occupant.

Before him, flickering in the candlelight, stands a ghostly puppeteer.

And the headless corpse it commands.

Killua jumps back, heart scrabbling at his ribs, _Thunderbolt_ leaping from his palm—

But before it can land, the puppeteer and its ghastly doll leap away, swelling thighs sending them out the gap in the roof and into the unforgiving night.

The barn is empty, soulless once more.

Killua stands, eyes wide and gazing at nothing.

A friendly _neigh_ from behind him, and the sudden warmth of Squall’s muzzle on his shoulder. He takes her trailing reins absentmindedly. Together, they stumble out into the clearing.

A square of parchment on the ground catches his eye.

A map.

It’s his.

As he unfolds it, the parchment crinkles in his shaking hands.

In due time, he reorients himself, mounts Squall, gallops to the long-sought village, finds the nearest inn, and collapses into a restless sleep.

***

A rap on his door. “Hey, you! Wake up!”

Roused from slumber, Killua jolts, springing his aura from _Zetsu—_

There is no malice in the aura behind the door.

He’s safe.

“Whaddya think yer _doin’_ , punk? Bargin’ in without paying like that?! You thinkin’ _just_ because we’re an inn–”

Okay, maybe a _little_ malice.

The inn he’s found is homely, small, with walls and floor of rough-hewn oak. The furnishings are sparse—the bed he lies in tucked in the corner beside the window, a gnarled wooden bench in the other, a tattered sheepskin rug stretched out between them. Cold, damp air seeps in through the open window, the breath of a morning barely grown past winter.

Sounds filter up from the rooms below him—barking dogs, a crackling hearth, the _clink_ of glasses. Everyday laughter.

And, above all that-

“–that ya can just ride up here in that fancy saddle o’ yours an’ take whatever ya want? Well, I got _news_ for you, ya little _punk_ –”

Killua rolls languidly out of bed and strolls to the door. He’s still in his traveling clothes from yesterday, he notices– the sea-blue tunic beaded at collar and cuffs, the leggings of a wool far too fine to pass as peasant wear.

The innkeeper notices too, as soon as he opens the door. “Well, isn’t _this_ sumthin’,” he drawls. “Been putting on some airs, punk?”

“Well, _someone’s_ got to,” Killua deadpans. “Otherwise, I’d imagine it’d quite terribly stink around here.”

He’s duly rewarded by the sight of the innkeeper’s face turning scarlet. Coupled with his greasy brown pompadour, this has the effect of making his face look like the head and neck of a large, well-wattled rooster. _“Why_ , you little–”

“Hey, Knuckle,” says a voice, softer but still thick with the same countryside drawl, “didya get the money from ‘im yet?”

“I’m _trying,”_ the innkeeper–Knuckle apparently–shoots back. “Obstinate _sort_ , he is–”

As if _specifically_ to prove him right, Killua brushes past him and steps into the hall. Lined with gnarled-oak doors and candle-stubbed lanterns, it’s a perfectly ordinary a hall– by peasant standards, that is. A window at one end, its shutters open, looks out onto the deep emerald of spruce branches and the gray of morning fog. The other end folds into a set of narrow stairs, leading down into what Killua assumes (and vaguely remembers) is the inn’s common room. Warmth rises from the steps, warring with the purposeless wind from the window.

And on that set of stairs, poised but unwilling to commit himself to the final step, stands a tall, maroon-haired man, the source of the second voice. His sharp features, tall collar, and missing arm lend him a commanding figure, but something about the way he carries himself– leaning against the wall with his good arm and watching Killua and Knuckle with nervous, darting eyes– gives Killua the impression that that isn’t _quite_ the case. “Welcome. My name’s Shoot McMahon, an’ this here is–”

“Knuckle Bine,” Knuckle drawls. “What’s it _to_ ya, kid?”

“You’ll have to forgive my husband,” Shoot says, with the barest trace of a smile. “He’s a tad ornery at times—got a soft heart deep down, though. What brings you to these parts?”

“Well…” Killua folds his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. “Do either of you have any giants you need killing?”

At those words, the belligerent gleam in Knuckle’s eyes drains away, replaced by shock—and regret. Shoot visibly retreats, straightening and stepping blindly down the stairs.

“By that, I’ll take it that you do.”

“What?” Knuckle sneers. “You an’ your fancy horse gonna come swooping in an’—”

“Knuckle,” Shoot says softly, the _I got this_ left unsaid. He motions to Killua—and starts down the stairs.

Killua follows, snarky comments about _giant delivery service_ dying on his tongue.

Shoot limps slightly, Killua notices.

They pass the bar, pass the common room crowded with townspeople, and step out the door. They don’t stop walking until the come to a small clearing in the woods atop a modest hill. On any other day, this would have given them a soaring view– but this morning has dawned damp and gray, shrouding the world in fog.

If Killua turns away from Shoot, there’s nothing to show him he isn’t the only person on earth.

“Well?” Killua says, raising an eyebrow as he glances at Shoot. “Does your giant like meadows? Or maybe fog?”

“We ain’t here for that,” Shoot mutters. Breathing deeply as if to steel himself, he circles the clearing to stand opposite Killua.

He tenses, spreads his feet apart as he locks Killua in his gaze. Beside him, three floating fists and a birdcage appear.

“Show me your _Ren.”_

***

One hit. One hit was all he got in.

And then Shoot’s _hatsu_ had taken his toes and he’s found himself tumbling as his weight came down _wrong_ on his still-healing leg-

“You fought well,” Shoot says, and Killua, prone and facedown, feels the other man’s weight leave his back. “But you made mistakes. You rely on your speed too much, for one.”

Killua peels himself off the grass, “Doesn’t matter,” he groans, running one hand through his hair and pulling out an impressive amount of mud. _“You_ didn’t tell me you could fly.”

Shoot steps into his field of view, looking down at Killua with a _and_ you _didn’t tell me you could summon lightning_ look.

_Why didn’t you kill him? You had every chance._

This is going to be one of _those_ days, Killua realizes; the days when Illumi speaks with _his_ voice, they days when the voice of his mind and the voice of his brother grow together like briars, choking his heart.

“And besides,” Killua says as he stands with Shoot’s hand, “I was going easy on you.”

Shoot sets his mouth in a thin line.

Killua’s fingers become knives. Shoot jerks his hand back as beads of blood appear in his palm.

“I could’ve killed you in seconds if I’d wanted.”

When Shoot speaks again, his voice is soft– and much further away. “I know. But I don’t think you can defeat the giant, though.”

“Try me.”

Shoot steps out of the fog; his eyes finding Killua’s. “How much of the legend d’you know?”

“The usual.” Killua shrugs. “Some kid swore himself to darkness and hit puberty Brion-damned fast. I can certainly see why it’s such an illustrious legend.” He hadn’t been thirteen when he’d told it to– _some_ one, or some _thing_ , and at the time, it had sparkled like nothing else, luring his heart beyond the cold stone walls of Kukuro Castle with its enticing flavor, whispering words of heroism, of adventure and tragedy and sugar-spun worlds right out of his reach…

_I guess we all have to grow up at some point._

“Interesting you call it a legend,” Shoot muses, half to himself, “when it’s only five years old…” Any reaction Killua might show is cut off by Shoot’s next words. “Tell me, do you know what an Arcknight is?”

“Hah?”

“One of the Faerie King’s most powerful, most trusted vassals.” Shoot limps over to Killua– and without any further words, begins to open his robe.

Killua’s flippant _so you prefer younger men, huh?_ dies on his tongue as he catches sight of the other man’s chest.

Scars.

Thick, pink, ropelike scars lattice his torso like strangler vines, shining in the gray light, pulling his flesh taut with every breath.

Killua can only gape. _How could he…_

He watches as Shoot bends down, rolling up his pant leg. Halfway down his right calf, his leg ends _._

What’s beneath is wood.

“There were four of us,” Shoot says, his voice helpless against the swallowing fog. “Four of us. Against _one_ Arcknight. I barely survived.”

“We couldn’t wound him,” Shoot continues, his eyes searching for something very far away. “Always was a cowardly sort myself. Thought I was going to go out all honorable, but... In the end, he _spared_ us. I don’t know why. Knuckle always said, ‘twas because he was moved by our heroics, but maybe he thought we were nothin’ more than trash…

He turns to Killua, eyes glittering. “That legend of yours says he was just a boy, right? On that night.”

Killua gives the slightest nod.

“How old do you think he was?”

“Twelve… thirteen. Fourteen at most.”

“So, you got a boy, a boy of thirteen. Unarmed. And he’s up against an Arcknight, a foe so blighted that four grown men in their prime can’t even scratch. What do you s’pose happens?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“What happens– and I warn’t there, it’s all in the legends– but what happens is,” Shoot swallows hard.

“Is that boy _somehow_ gets the strength to take the head o’ an Arcknight. Alone, with nothin’ more than his fists.”

Around them, the wind howls.

_I really have been sentenced to death._

The realization comes with no great stinging slap; rather it settles over his shoulders, over his mind to choke him with all the softness of ash.

He was doomed from the start, he knows; too soft for his family, too cruel for the endless gleaming worlds outside the castle walls.

_With nothing more than his fists..._

Silently, he looks down at his hands.

He’d ripped out a grown man’s heart with them at only eleven. Since then, they’ve grown into a man’s, with strength to match…

_In that case, we’re a perfect pair._

And evil must perish, that’s the way it _always_ goes, in stories, in songs– _and if you clad evil with sword and mail and tell it to slay a giant, that doesn’t make it stop being evil, now_ does _it?_

His chest goes tight.

“Shoot.” Another gulp of suddenly-burning air. “How many people have tried to kill the giant in these last five years?”

“A lot. That’s all I know.”

“Did any of them make it back?”

The tiniest shake of Shoot’s head.

_Then I’m glad_ I’m _the one who has to die to this today. Not somebody else._

“So,” he says, forcing a cocky grin to rise to his face, “if I _did_ insist on facing this giant, where would he be…”

***

That afternoon, Killua returns to the village to find himself a minor celebrity.

A crowd has gathered around the inn, old and young, men and women, some looking at Squall and her brilliant armor with shining eyes, the most anxiously awaiting their eager young hero’s return.

He steps up to the inn to find himself facing a veritable hailstorm of questions– _are you_ really _going to slay that giant_ and _your lordship, is there anything I can do for you_ and _you’re our hero, you know_ all blurring together into a soundless roar-

_You don’t understand,_ he wants to scream _. I’m not a hero, and I’m not doing this for you._

***

Night falls to find him high and silent in his tree stand, bow ready but not drawn. He holds his _Ten_ close, coiling the aura around him like a spring.

_Any second now…_

He'd heard from the villagersthe giant would take this path by night would take this path this night, and Shoot and Knuckle had given him no reason to doubt them—yet as the moon climbs, as the hours slide by, he’s starting to feel he’s been tricked.

_This was useless from the start._ Illumi speaks with the voice of the nightingales, with the rush of the wind.

_You’ll die here, alone…_

_Well, if Shoot and Knuckle are right, then yeah,_ he thinks to the desolate sky. _I will._

Visions race through his restless mind: the villagers laughing at the bar, Knuckle and his dogs, the sadness on the queen’s face as she looked at her daughter…

Illumi’s last words, before he’d left.

_I love you, Killua._

_And I’m the only one who does._

There is no moon; the unbroken blackness around him yawns cold and unfeeling, a wall blocking him from the village, from memory, from light. Yet with _Gyo_ in his ears he has no need to see– he can hear _everything;_ the whispering pines, the hushed footfalls of a fox, a low whinny from Squall, a quarter of a mile away.

His own thudding heart.

The silence stretches by.

_How long?_ he thinks as the night reaches its emptiest hour.

_Where are you?_

A heavy, distant thudding reaches his ears.

Footsteps.

He starts, twisting in the direction of the sound.

They’re heavy, for a human—that of a large, broad-shouldered man.

Heavy—and growing closer with every step.

_Is that—_ his thought is cut short by the familiar tingling-

_Aura._

A _human_ aura at that, though so twisted with darkness it sends the Zoldyck heir’s stomach roiling with just a glance…

_So it can’t be him._

The footfalls are heavy—but still human-sized.

_It’s not him._

_Come to steal my prey, have you?_ A bitter grin on his face, Killua scrambles to the topmost branches of the tree in a soundless shower of needles. _Or you got some other reason for following me around the forest?_

The thudding stops—right beneath the base of the tree.

The aura stops, too.

_Zetsu?_ Killua’s eyes widen, though there’s nothing for him to see. _How does he know I’m_ here?

_He’s trying to lure me out._

It’s a perfect trap, really; if he moves, or goes into _Zetsu_ himself, his hunter will know he’s found his prey.

If he does nothing—he’ll still be cornered, high up in the treetops and with an unknown _hatsu_ waiting below.

These are the kind of moments assassins are supposed to avoid.

There‘s only one way out that Killua can see.

Over the top.

_So you want to_ play _, huh?_

He climbs to the very _tip_ of the pine, past the edge where the branches can no longer support his weight—and, just as the tree is about to give, he brings _Gyo_ to his legs.

And _jumps._

The blackness rushes past him as he flips through the air.  _Zetsu—_ and with that he’s _falling,_ tumbling headlong into the black night, the cold wind whistling in his ears.

_Whirlwind_ crackles to life around him. _Move._

His hands find the next tree _._ And in that lightning-lit moment, he sees his path—through branches knotted together and wind-lashed pines-

He lets the tree whip back under his weight and _rockets_ through the canopy in a breakneck rhythm— _grab, jump, Zetsu, Whirlwind,_ grab—the steady, heavy footsteps at his back weaving in and out of a confused run as he swerves through the trees.

The scudding clouds above him break, rent apart by distant winds, the once-hidden stars blurred into lines by his speed. And even though one slip, one misjudgment will prove fatal, even though he’s dancing on the edge of death—

He finds he’s smiling.

The other is smiling as well, Killua notices whenever the footsteps below him close in—though his aura still roils with malice, there’s a touch of– _playfulness?_

Like a child—or a wolf.

He comes to a stop, breathing hard, palms smarting with splinters and needles. “You enjoy your chase?” he says, staring down at his hunter, concealed in the dark forest below—

Nothing.

No footsteps, no breathing, no aura.

_Did I lose him?_

He shifts _Gyo_ to his ears once more—and hears a breath.

With aura, the sound is unearthily loud.

Killua whips around just as the moon breaks free of the racing clouds, turning his hair to sterling.

What stares back at him is a face.

A man’s face, high eyebrows and big amber eyes tightening with rage, the strong line of his jaw lost in his matted black beard.

_How?! I must be forty feet off the ground…_

_This_ is the giant, he realizes, his heart booming in his ears.

This is the giant.

With an aura.

A _human_ aura.

Five years ago— _was he just a_ boy?

_Was_ everything _true?_

It’s _absurd,_ he thinks, feeling his thoughts fracture, feeling a hysterical laugh tear up his heart, _it doesn’t make any_ sense—

_“First comes rock…”_

Killua sees aura shining in the giant’s fist.

He scrambles to the treetop, preparing to spring once more—

The giant does not alter his punch.

It lands with a _crack_ of splintering wood.

And Killua is _falling,_ tumbling hopelessly, his _Gyo-_ enhanced jump pushing off _nothing—_

_It’s strange,_ he thinks as the giant’s kick slams into him in a splatter of blood, crushing organs and bones, shattering his mind with pain.  _We’re around the same age…_

_Maybe we would have been friends…_

***

_That was the trouble with being strong, he’s realized._

_The man had_ leapt, _sparkling and crackling above the trees like a little human shooting star– and he’d_ chased– _felt the thrill of the hunt race through his veins-_

_White hair._

_The star man had white hair._

_Just like—_

(Ijustneedanhourtohealher _and_ _y_ ouhavetocrushthehead _and kiteisdeadkiteisdead_ ** _kiteisDEAD_** _)_

_He’d got angry._

_He broke the star man._

_That was the trouble with being strong._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, this chapter has Killua nearly attempting suicide, though he ultimately doesn’t go through with it. If you need to protect yourself from this content for any reason, _stop_ when you se a scene marked with _five_ asterisks instead. Either Ctrl+F “rain” or keep scrolling until you see it; that’s the start of Gon’s POV.

Killua wakes up.

There is no pain except a slight soreness in his ribs.

He lies facedown, by the roots of an old rotten oak, musty dead leaves filling his mouth, his nose, his  _ eyes–  _

_ Am I dead? _

_ Is this what death feels like? _

Gingerly, he peels himself off the forest floor, shaking leaves and pine needles out of his hair. His back arches as it should, his lungs take in air as they should. There is no pain when he moves—yet he doubles over, choking and retching on his own congealed blood.

More blood splatters the forest floor around him, he notices as the coughing fades.

Blood—and shreds of flesh and bone.

He runs one hand over his torso, searching for a wound and finding none.  _ How…  _

Why  _ am I still alive? _

This is no afterlife, he realizes; the trees look like the Mitene trees, the dawn-painted sky looks just like it has every other morning of his life. He feels his breath, his  _ Ten _ — _ (but that’s no proof, is it, aura can linger well after death _ —)

His pulse.

Beating just like it always has.

_ Or it’s one hell of a shitty afterlife, at the very least. _

He looks down to see his mailcoat  _ crushed _ , the metal rings shattered and warped and melted into a thousand different shapes, all buried under a thick coating of dried blood—

A memory flashes in his mind—a summer evening, exploring a cave with laughing sky-blue eyes following him as they raced through cathedrals of stone. He’d found crystals, lying there in the mud, their shimmering facets half-hidden by grime.

His stomach and chest glitter, now, their facets buried in gore.

He reaches down to pull it away—and stops at a scalding, sharp pain.

Almost as if his skin  _ itself _ is being ripped away.

He looks closer, scrapes away bits of meat—

It is.

Fresh new skin, baby-pink and smooth, has grown around what’s left of his clothes, sending a stab of pain racing up his nerves whenever he so much as moves.

_ What the hell  _ is _ this? _

_ *** _

_ The star man isn’t dead. _

_ He knows it the minute he sees the smear of blood on the forest floor. _

_ The smear of blood _ — _ and the footprints in the leaves, leading away. _

_ He  _ smells  _ him, too; smells the traces of the star man’s sweat and body and blood, oddly sweet, like the spring air after rain. _

why won’t you die?  _ he thinks with a cold fury. _ i  _ already _ gave you my arm…

***

They try to kill each other two more times before Killua realizes.   
It’s the charm.

The silver sash pulses with  _ Nen  _ as if its little black cat is  _ alive _ —alive and ready to walk, purring, right off of Killua’s wrist.

He feels his pulse, pounding away at the skin underneath the silk.

So strong.

So fragile.

It stays.

On his third day in the forest, he finds the letter, hidden in a secret compartment behind the cat’s face.

_ Kil,  _

_ I hope you like this charm; it was quite a difficulty for us to make. _

_ It will heal you completely, should you sustain fatal wounds during your quest, but I would advise against using it for anything more minor—or taking it off before you fell him. Should you use it, and remove it ere you have slain him, the full extent of your injuries will still take effect. Moreover, if you see both of the lights in the cat’s eyes go out, it means the sash has reached the full exertion of its healing powers. After that, your next attempt will be your last. Should ever you decide to renounce your quest, it will be conveyed through the charm, and I will rescue you. _

_ With much affection, your dearest brother,  _

_ Illumi _

_ P.S. Father says, should you make allies in your noble quest, to never betray them. Never betray your friends. _

The skin on his wrist burns.   
_ Of course,  _ he thinks, a sour taste filling his mouth.  _ Couldn’t take the risk of letting your most prized possession go and get himself killed now, huh? _

_ How?  _ How many people’s  _ hatsu  _ had been involved in the creation of this charm? 

_ Tens? Hundreds? _

_ It can’t be anyone in my immediate family, so… _

_ How _ had his brother found the means to compel  _ so many people? _

Visions flash through his mind, white-hot and scalding; a neat little row of mages, Enhancers and Conjurers, needle-pricked and hunched over a tiny silver wisp of cloth-

How many people had to die to get  _ this  _ charm in  _ this  _ place, all so that the Zoldycks would still retain their jewel?

His eyes begin to burn.  _ How— _ why _ do I have to be still alive? _

***

He does not follow the giant in his third life.

He sits, elbow on knee, his chin in one hand, the white lines of his  _ hatsu  _ racing idly down his free arm.

The sky brightens, the sun climbing to light the forest around him in brilliant, bouncing greens and browns. Somewhere deep in the trees, a distant thrush chirps.

Flames crackle to life in his hand– his  _ hatsu  _ has ignited Illumi’s letter.

_ I’ll never be free,  _ he thinks, watching flakes of ash glow in his hand.  _ Illumi said he would rescue me if I decided to abandon this _ — _ that means he knows where I am. _

_ He could find me. At any given moment. _

_ He could be watching me right now _ —

Killua’s stomach twists.

*****

_ I can’t kill him,  _ he thinks, several days later, sitting slumped on a log in a shaded corner of the forest, the tops of the trees vanishing into sheaths of mist. _ I’ve tried everything. _

The realization holds fast to his heart, and no matter  _ how _ many times Killua hears his father’s voice speak through his mind, it will not dislodge.

_ His sense of taste is too acute for poison, he himself is too alert for a knife in the back. _

_ And, with  _ that  _ Ren _ — _ at least I  _ think _ it was Ren _ —Killua winces at the memory— _ he’d probably survive everything I could throw at him. _

_ That is, if he’s even  _ human _ … _

He turns the pieces of that night over and over in his mind—the aura he’d felt from below, warped with long-festering malice; his starlit flight through the treetops, the wind playing in his hair…

The giant’s face, confusion twisting into rage as the moonlight lit up them both.

He hadn’t lived long past that.

_ Something doesn’t add up. _

“So,” he says to no one in particular, sliding off the log to sit crosslegged on the forest floor, “if  _ this  _ is the giant—” he reaches over and grabs a long, knobby, lichen-covered stick from the forest floor— “and  _ this _ is me—” a cluster of pine needles joins the makeshift cast— “then the man who pursued me that night would be…”

He grabs a pinecone and places it between the other two. “Like that?”

The trees give him no answer.

_ At first, I thought they were the same person—but from the sound of his footsteps, there’s no  _ way _ he could’ve been  _ that _ tall. _

_ So that means there’s a third person in these woods. _

He straightens, pushing himself back up on the log, tension running down his spine.  _ I’m being watched. _

He scans the clearing, wires of adrenaline threading his veins.

Nothing.

No figure emerges from the woods.

The line of trees stands before him, as unfeeling as ever.  _ Who are you?  _ he asks their silent forms.  _ Another adventurer hunting for glory? Someone hired by my family? _

A memory flashes in his mind—the yellow-orange glow of the giant’s fist.

_ But their auras—they’d felt the  _ same _ … _

_ Regardless,  _ he thinks as he leans forward to rest his head in his hands,  _ there’s really no way out of this for me, is there? _

A glance at the cat charm confirms his suspicions; the gemstones in its eyes have almost lost their light.  _ Option one; I try again to kill him, and probably die. Option two; I activate the charm. _

_ I admit I’ve failed. _

_ And Illumi finds me. _

He feels sick.

_ Option three… _

All it would take is one twist of the little cat clasp. One twist, and the sash would slip from his wrist.

One twist, and he would crumple to the forest floor in a smear of blood, of punctured lungs and shattered limbs…

_ At least  _ then _ I would be free. _

(He thinks of the tenderness in Shoot’s voice as he spoke about Knuckle; of the grief in the queen’s eyes when she learned of the threat to her daughter—and no matter how much he tries to tell himself that  _ things like that just weren’t made for me, _ he can’t shake the feeling that to remove the sash would be to admit defeat-)

_ What other path is there? Go crawling back to my mother and brother and admit I’m the failure they always saw me as? Give up my chance at ever seeing freedom? _

_ Or stay here and die? _

_ If it wasn’t for this damn charm I’d’ve died already. It’s only fair. _

His hand goes to the clasp.

_ Do it.  _ His thoughts speak with Illumi’s voice.  _ You’re so soft that you can’t even summon the courage to kill  _ yourself? 

_ And after all that we did for you… _

His fingers press down on the clasp.

They don’t move.

This is just like with the princess— _ Woble. She has a  _ name _ — _ he realizes with a sweep of stunning clarity.  

Once again, his fingers rebel.

_ She has a name _ —and, if that flaxen-haired guard he’d tried so desperately to kill had his way, a future, too, a future with a mother who loved her, who held her tight in her arms and would give the world to see her grow—

A future spent laughing with friends, running and dancing to the music of life; a future where she could fall in love and hold her  _ own _ children that tight someday.

_ I don’t belong here. _

His chest tightens _. _

Biting his lip and swallowing the sudden, hard lump in his throat, he lifts his face to the sky, squeezes his burning eyes shut– and wills his stubborn fingers to  _ move. _

He freezes.

Option four.

Option four is an option so crazy it barely even registers as an option–  _ but then again, I suppose it’s better than me just dying here… _

_ Though I  _ still  _ don’t know why I should be alive. _

But something bites in his mind, an idea barely even conceptual, the plan writing itself out even as he thinks it.

_ After all, the worst that can happen is he kills someone who’s already dead... _

***

_ The famed giant of Mitene sits in a hilltop clearing, spring growth at his feet, the clouded gray sky above him framed by the teeth of distant mountains. _

_ Rain drips from a leaded sky, tracing his body, his face with silvery rivulets. _

_ Rain. _

_ He’d liked rain once _ — _ loved it. Rain turned the earth to squelchy, oozy clay; rain created tempting jumping puddles; rain brought all the worms to the surface and after it rained, he’d go tramping through the mud as a sort of benevolent dictator of wormkind; healing the injured, keeping his favorite ones as makeshift pets, throwing the meanest ones and the too badly wounded in his bag as fishing tackle. _

_ Now though, all rain does is weigh down his hair. _

_ He lets it wash him, feels the droplets beading on the festering stump of his right arm. _

_ He sits with his head bowed. _

_ He doesn’t move. _

_ Footsteps. _

_ And aura. _

_ And a voice saying, “Hey,  _ dumbass—“

_ The first words he’s heard in five years. _

_ The giant turns around as the spent clouds recede. _

_ The sun bursts through _ — _ and, standing among grass clad in glittering droplets, with blue eyes deeper than the sky and white hair turned golden by the afternoon light _ —

_ The star man. _

_ “Hey, dumbass, I’m  _ talking  _ to you.” _

_ His blood had been red. _

_ On the leaves. The first and second and  _ third _ times he _ —whywontyoudie—

_ Rage tightens him. Rage is his friend, his companion for the last five years. _

_ He doesn’t quite know how  _ literal _ it would be to say that rage keeps him alive. _

_ From the stump of his arm, a writhing ball of  _ Nen  _ begins to glow. _

_ “Go ahead,” the star man says, nodding his chin in the direction of the light. “The worst you can do is cause me pain.” _

Blueeyesredblood–  _ not  _ redeyesblueblood-

_ He lets the  _ Nen _ recede. _

_“What I’m_ trying _to say,” the star man continues, with a proud slant to his jaw, “is that I’m going to be living here in the woods for a bit. So I’d appreciate_ _if you stopped trying to brutally murder me. At least for a_ while _.”_

_ He awards him no response. _

_ “Oi,  _ listen _. Do you understand me or  _ what?  _ I can tell you’re someone who gets off on thrills–” _

_ He blinks. _

_ “But I’d  _ prefer  _ not to be crushed to death on a regular basis. So I’ll stop trying to kill you as long as you stop trying to kill me. Deal?” _

you don’t understand,  _ he thinks as he rises, striding for the star man with thunderous steps- _

i don’t care if i die.

i’m s’posed to be dead already-

( _ It’s only later, when he lies on the sodden forest floor beneath a star-studded sky, curled up and shaking from a nightmare of fists dyed with brilliant blue blood… _

_ Someone who gets off on thrills, the star man had said. _

someone.

he thinks i’m a  _ person-) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a few things:
> 
> First of all, a huge THANK YOU to everyone who’s left comments so far!! I honestly never expected to receive this much praise for this story, and to see all your wonderful comments make my heart sing! You are seriously the reason why I keep writing, so thanks so much!
> 
> Second of all I FORGOT TO LINK THE BEAUTIFUL AMAZING ART THAT HONEYBITZ DID FOR MY FIC!!! http://honeybitz.tumblr.com/post/175249833212/hxhbb18-so-heres-the-piece-i-did-for-the-hxh They illustrated the storybook Killua reads to Alluka in the opening scene, and they did it ENTIRELY of cut paper!! I was completely stunned (and kinda screamed a bit when I first saw it) Seriously, they are amazing, and so is their art! 
> 
> And third, I’m sorry for the late update; I was preparing for a 2½ week vacation last weekend, and now that the vacation is underway, I’ve been occupied to say the least! Also, from here on out, I plan on doing Friday updates instead, so expect a new chapter tomorrow! (unless I can’t get to my iPad lol)


	4. Chapter 4

On his fifth day of living in the forest, Killua wakes—an action that he no longer takes for granted. 

Not that he has before, really; but he’s found that dying, even just  _ one _ time, tends to put things into perspective.

_ The charm didn’t fail, and no giants or monsters murdered me in my sleep. So that’s good. _

_ I suppose. _

High in the crook of a vast elm tree, he sits up, wraps his legs tightly around the bough, and stretches—the kind of stretch that starts in your shoulders before rippling out to your face, tugging the stiffness from your neck and arms, gently melting sleep-frozen muscles as it goes.

The morning is cold—the nighttime chill numbs his exposed cheeks and beads of frost line his hair, twinkling in the pale light of dawn. Above him, outlined by the dark, bud-laden branches of the tree, he sees a sky streaked with gossamer clouds, dyed pearl-pink by the sunrise’s soft hands.

He lies back down against the trunk, letting the sounds of the forest wash over him—the wind strolling through the branches; the distant sound of a lapping stream; the trill of a songbird just arrived from the south. Somewhere below him, the undergrowth rustles, and he catches sight of a badger scampering back to her hole for the morning.

The forest is  _ alive  _ around him; welcoming him, drawing him deeper and deeper into its folds.

_ I’m free. _

He blinks, sitting straighter, eyes widening.  _ I’m  _ free.

There will be no training this morning, no  _ this is how you rip a man open  _ and  _ this is how you disguise poison  _ and  _ this is how you harden your heart— _

_ I’m free. _

His heart thuds at the thought.

His world sharpens, the sunrise brightening, the clouds softening, the air growing sweeter by the second.  _ My family isn’t here. _

He raises one hand before his face, watches the fingernails become claws.

His mother had broken those child-round fingers over and over again, softly murmuring _ settle down, Killua  _ and  _ this will make you stronger  _ and  _ I’m doing this because I love you… _

_ She’s not here. _

The emotions that well up inside him are too rare, too strange, to be so easily identified as joy.

***

Killua stays in his makeshift bed for a full hour before climbing down with an offhand, “Hey, Squall, shithead, you didn’t run off during the night, did–”

The words trail off into nothingness as he realizes she has done exactly that.

And in her place stands a monster of a man, half again as tall as Killua, with a great green-black horn that stretches to the treetops and a bramble-thick beard every bit as long and dark…

The giant of Mitene.

The monster who’d snuffed out his life—and freed it in the same stroke.

He sits at the base of the tree with his head bowed, his massive shoulders slumped. His face is turned away from Killua, to the eastern light.

Squall is nowhere in sight.

Killua slithers off the lowest branch and alights on the forest floor, without so much as a sound. “You better not have hurt Squall, you bastard.”

The only response is the wind.

“She’s a damn good horse, she wouldn’t’ve run away on her own. So I’m going to take a guess.” He strides over to the giant, fallen leaves scuffling under his feet, and puts one razor-sharp hand on either side of his neck, letting his fingernails prick the sunbaked skin. “Either you frightened her away, wounded her, or killed her.” He inches his hands together, feeling the heat of the giant’s jugular under his fingertips— _ I can kill him yet, or at least  _ try _ —this is what I was born to do, wasn’t it— _

He brings his lightning to his hands, watches the giant’s flesh turn red at the heat. “Well? Which is it?”

Nothing.

The giant’s neck begins to blister under his fingertips.

The seconds wander by—and Killua’s about ready to give up and maybe kick his ass as he feels the giant’s flesh boil, feels the white bubbles form and swell beneath his skin.

“Come  _ on,  _ don’t you have anything  _ better _ to do…”

With a sigh, the giant stands up and turns to face Killua.

He’s nowhere near as tall as Killua had first thought—only the size of a very large man and nothing more  _ (he must’ve been standing on a hill)— _ but he can still easily look down on Killua. 

The giant steps toward him now, steps forward until they’re standing close enough to embrace; and Killua gives, just a little, his feet rustling on the leaves as he stumbles back—

The giant says nothing, only keeps his burning eyes locked onto Killua’s own. 

A pressure on his wrist.

He brings Killua’s hand to his neck, gripping the wrist hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break bone; and places the tips of Killua’s fingers right below the burn marks, right on one of the great vessels that feed his brain.

And leans in.

Beads of blood— _ red  _ blood,  _ human  _ blood—trickle down his throat from the crescent-moon gashes Killua’s nails leave, highlighting the fluted sweep of his collarbone. Without a word, he reaches out and places his hand on the small of Killua’s back, drawing him close, pressing their bodies together. 

Killua’s bones creak, his nerves protest—and he feels  _ Ko  _ burning in the giant’s touch, feels the handprint bruise blossoming and the heartbreaking sense of the morning’s freedom slipping away like windblown sand…

_ You want this, don’t you. _

_ You want to die. _

The giant leans in farther, the slow, warm trickle of blood from his pricked throat becoming a stream.

His leaden eyes find Killua’s own—and for a heartbeat, it almost seems like an entirely different scene; that if anyone were to find them like this, with Killua’s fingers trailing down the tight curve of the giant’s neck, with the giant’s arm around him holding them close, so close their breaths intermingle, they would think they had come across two lovers, perhaps saying their last goodbyes before promising to meet again in the next world…

_ You want to die, huh?  _ Killua thinks, as amber eyes meet blue ones softening with understanding; as the two of them stand silhouetted against the morning sun. 

_ Then that makes two of us. _

***

His fingers are still red.

The blood under the nails dries into dark flakes that smell of iron and salt and something so distinctly  _ human, _ ghostly and bitter and warm, a scent that Killua can’t name, can’t  _ forget _ …

It’s nothing new.

The blood of strangers has dyed his hands many times before.

_ I didn’t kill him. _

Killua, sitting crosslegged on the fluted stone bank of a murmuring stream, blinks at the thought.  _ I had every chance—he  _ wanted _ to die, and yet— _

_ I could have gone home. _

_ I could have saved my family. _

He thinks of Kukuro Keep wreathed in flames, the harsh scent of smoke splitting the air; he thinks of his mother and father with blades gleaming at their necks—

He thinks of Canary, looking out on the world with soft, desperate eyes, her mouth set in the smallest of frowns as the executioner ties the noose, and feels ill.

_ (And another girl, with long black hair and cornflower-blue eyes, who could laugh despite it all, who named the dolls she’d stolen in the night-) _

The wounds of his failure carve themselves into his heart.  _ Father, Mother, Brother… you were right. _

His hair falls into his eyes as the world before him blurs.

He does not look at his reflection in the stream. 

_ I really am too soft. _

_ *** _

_ What would it be like,  _ he wonders some hours later, lying on his back on the grass above the bank,  _ if I didn’t kill him? _

It would be so easy—all he would have to do is  _ walk _ , walk up to him and let the giant offer up his neck once more.

All he would have to do, then, is force his hands to move.

_ I’m sick of killing people. I’m  _ tired _ of being nothing more than a blade. _

_ So what if I didn’t go  _ back?

He’s already died once, he rationalizes—and he  _ is _ dead yet, in a sense. If he never leaves the forest, no one will be the wiser—the Zoldycks will assume their fool of a son has perished; the remaining nobles will hear of his death and clutch their jewels with a sad smile, and think justice has been done.

_ And I’ll be here. _

_ Doing  _ what _ , I don’t know, but… _

Visions flash through his mind—endless days spent in the green cathedrals of the forest, fishing, foraging berries and roots, making himself a little hut and lighting a fire, letting the smoke of dead leaves fill his house, his bones… days bleeding together, alone except for Squall…

Would he die, then? Alone in the forest, an old man, a noble heir forgotten by time?

_ And where does the  _ giant _ fit into this _ , he thinks ruefully, rolling a blade of grass between his fingers until their pads are stained green. He pictures himself at fifty, cautiously sharing a forest with the giant, giving each other curt glances whenever their exiled lives cross…

It’s almost absurd enough to make him laugh.

_ I could go back to Shoot and Knuckle’s village, maybe learn a trade or take up farming or  _ whatever _ it is that peasants like  _ them _ do… _

He grimaces.  _ I mean, given the choice, I’d still rather be born as nobility. Just not a son of the Zoldycks. _

_ But.. _ .  _ Illumi knows about the charm, and is probably well able to track me. If I try to live in any area, any area at all that can easily be reached by humans, I’m setting myself up for failure. Sooner or later, they’ll realize they haven’t heard from me in a long time, and come to retrieve me. _

_ But this forest… _

_I don’t know if Illumi could reach me here. And I’d have the giant, and fae magic, to confuse any searchers. Even if Illumi_ could _find me here, it’d be a lot mor e difficult than... I’m going in circles, aren’t I?_

_ Maybe I could just live in the village and leave if… No.  _

Around the grass, his fingers clench. 

_ I don’t want to always be running from them. _

He sits up, blinking.

_ I don’t want them to control me. _

The world feels like it just might come undone.  _ My name is Killua. And I’m  _ free _. _

He lets out a years-held breath– and feels a smile burst forth onto his lips.

_ You can’t control me. _

***

Killua doesn’t see the giant again until two days later—two days spent lying around, watching the light dance on the leaves, the dust in the sunlight, and waiting.

Waiting for what, he doesn’t know.

He finds Squall, alive and unharmed and safely carrying his rations—what’s left of them, anyway. From there, the days pass, one flowing into the next. He breathes in the pine-scented air and lets the spray of hidden waterfalls leap over him; he watches tiny forest insects drift by, caught on tendrils of sunlight. He sees the sunrises and sunsets unfold before him, painting the sky the color of love, the color of blood. 

He sees the first stars appear, twinkling among the evening  clouds, and hears the nightlarks sing, and wonders if  _ this _ is the first time he’s ever truly breathed. 

It’s on a night like that—a spring night, clear and cold, when the sunset has dwindled away and the silver shard of moon guards the dusk—that he meets his forest compatriot once more.

Killua has pitched his camp, albeit not without some difficulty. He sits beside the small crackling fire, his hands cupped around nothing, leaning in as much as for light as for warmth when those great footfalls reach his ears once more.

Killua does not look. The aura is as familiar as the steps.

The giant pulls up a log and sits to his left, gazing into the flames as if he’s never seen fire before in his life.

_ He might not’ve.  _ Killua’s brow furrows at the realization.  _ It depends on what kind of a creature he is—I know  _ some _ magical beasts can use Nen, or magic that’s at least enough like it to be read by humans… _

Killua’s eyes widen as he straightens, turning his head to study the giant, taking in the carved slope of his shoulders, his cheekbones… 

His great horn, and the way his beard trails down in a wild tangle. The frayed clothes he wears—the filthy remnants of an undershirt and breeches, barely enough to keep him modest.

_ He  _ looks  _ human—and  _ feels  _ human, too, but… who would  _ keep _ themselves in such a state? _

He feels the darkness roiling in the giant’s aura still—the same sense of a shattered mind, the same impetuous rage.

The giant looks up.

Killua flinches, his breath catching—but the giant does nothing more than find Killua’s eyes with his own.

Killua slouches and folds his arms over his chest. “You looking at something, dumbass?”

His companion says nothing, only holds his gaze. The firelight dances in his burning eyes, turning them gold.

His eyes have no pupil, Killua notices—they darken slightly in the center and nothing more.

Killua feels a chill scraping at his veins.  _ Just what  _ are  _ you? _

Their world falls silent—deathly,  _ eerily  _ silent, as if the entire forest is holding its breath.

The giant raises his arm—and Killua sees his fist coated in drying blood.

Red,  _ human _ blood.

Killua’s stomach twists.  _ I was selfish not to kill him. _

_ Even if it  _ felt _ like he was freedom… _

He remembers being six years old, his fingers rending flesh; remembers the way the scent had lingered long after the man was dead, and thinks that giving a beast its freedom is sometimes the worst thing one can do.

_ I really can’t judge him, can I. _

The giant gazes down at his bloodstained fist with a look of childish bewilderment, as if his world had stopped making sense quite a long time ago; or maybe it had  _ never _ made sense, and he’s just beginning to realize it—

“You get in a fight?”

The giant raises his head, alarm flickering in his gaze.

Killua nods toward his bloodstained hand. “Looks like you fucked up whoever was on the receiving end pretty bad. I should know. I’ve lived through it.”

Childish rage flickers in blank, pupilless eyes. Their owner tenses, as if to stand—

_ “Relax,”  _ Killua scoffs, with a flippancy he doesn’t feel. “You’ve already had your chance at killing me. And, as you can see, it didn’t quite work. So, are you going to stand there and throw a tantrum about it, or are you going to  _ listen?” _

Beneath his bushy black beard the giant scowls, his  _ Nen  _ writhing around him like broken blood vessels—“ _ you should  _ die _ —“ _

It’s not just rage that’s burning within the giant’s eyes.

It’s grief.

His thoughts fly back to just a few weeks earlier; lying wounded on the hard flagstone floor as Kurapika’s voice rang out, as his eyes blazed with righteous fury.  _ How can you  _ do _ this, and feel nothing at all? _

Killua swallows hard. “So you  _ can _ talk.”

The giant ducks his head, as if ashamed. “Sor– sorta... for-got…”

It’s a long time before either of them speak again. 

“Y... you’re a person… aren’t you?”

The giant looks up with the quickness of a rabbit, meeting his question with amber eyes stretched wide with surprise—and something else; something that, if the giant wasn’t sitting beside him with fresh human blood on his fist, Killua would have called  _ tenderness _ —

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

The giant’s eyes shimmer, watery in the firelight, his gaze falling away from Killua and to the flames.

It’s almost  _ boyish _ , his sense of uncertainty— _ but then, _ Killua realizes with a too-vivid clarity,  _ he  _ was  _ only _ thirteen—

“Well, anyway, it doesn’t really matter.” The giant’s brow knits itself into furrows, his mouth drooping beneath his beard as Killua continues, “You realize why I’m out here, don’t you?  _ You must’ve, somewhere  _ in that void between your ears.”

The giant turns toward Killua, something  _ lost _ in his eyes. “…Kill me?”

It sounds half like an answer, half like a request.

“Congratulations. You’re officially smarter than you sound.”

His barb earns no reaction from the mountainous man beside him. “Lotsa people try.”

“I know.” Killua looks down at his knees. He muses, half to himself, “Same goes for me, I guess you could say...”

Before them, the flames crackle.

“You know they’ve got every reason to try and kill you.” There is no note of accusation in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. “You’ve become quite good at making life hard for the settlers in this area.”

The giant slumps forward, head falling as if deflated. Silhouetted against the firelight, his great shoulders shake.  _ I know. _

“Ah–” Killua opens his mouth to find it dry. 

“Well, you see,” he says, swallowing nothing, “I’m meant to kill you too.”

Silence, broken only by the soft  _ hiss _ of the flames.

“The only problem is, if I killed you, I’d have to go home to my family. And I don’t particularly feel like  _ doing  _ that.”

Even just by saying the words, he feels like he’s distorted his carefully-ordered world in some infinitesimally small way; as if he’s reached in with his voice, with his hands, and torn the universe apart at the seams. “I suppose I could try my damndest to get killed by you, but– I guess I don’t particularly feel like doing  _ that,  _ either…” 

His voice trails off.

_ I don’t want to die. _

The forest, its life and secrets and sunrises–  _ I want to see it. Even if just for another day… _

He crushes his eyes shut.

_ I… _

He has no map, no knowledge for the bright bubbles of  _ feeling _ that flow through him– all he knows is that it makes his world a little more vivid, makes the firelight shine golden, the night a deeper blue. The sounds of forest night reach his ears and he breathes  _ with _ them– breathes  _ easily _ , unhurried, the air flowing  _ to _ him like a clear mountain spring.

_ I want to stay here. _

The giant is looking at him, now, looking at him with wide, soft eyes. They glitter in the firelight, and Killua is overcome by the desire to  _ speak,  _ to connect the two of them with tongue and throat and lips-

_ Is it okay if I stay here? _

_ Do you know? _

“So, what I was thinking,” he begins, the words stumbling on his tongue, “is… Well.” Killua wets his lips, swallows, then straightens. “Someone– someone  _ did _ that to you, didn’t they?”

“Huh?”

“That.” A shadow in his voice as Killua gestures to the giant’s body; to the horn, the missing arm and the beard. “Call it a hunch, but… that didn’t happen to you naturally. You were cursed, and now you’re trying to find the person that did that to you. Am I right?”

A shadow crosses the giant’s face, a ghost of a long-buried pain.

“You’re trying to take revenge.” 

The words hang in the air beside the spiraling embers, lending a pallor to the night. Killua watches as the giant, his face wet, gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“Well, I– uh, the thing is…” The next words turn bitter on his tongue.  _ He will hate me.  _

_ I just need to give it a moment. _

He lets the memory of his brothers’ words and weapons and hands fill his frame, lets the half-remembered taste of poison seep into his mouth—and when he looks at the giant again, his eyes are lifeless. 

Cold.

“I’m an assassin.”

“A- _ sass _ \- i…?”

_ Of course. He probably would’ve been a peasant, he wouldn’t have the vocabulary I do.  _ “A professional killer.” He grins, but there’s no humor in it, only the cold whiteness of a snake’s fangs. “I kill people. For money. It’s what I do.”

There is no trace of fear, no disgust, no righteous indignation crossing the giant’s face. Rather, he looks at Killua like he’s founds something interesting—a strange creature from the Unknown Lands, an inventor’s gadget, a glittering new toy. Killua doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or afraid.

“I was thinking I could help you,” he says, his voice small, hesitant against the rising tide of Illumi in his mind.  _ Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing. _

_ It’s time you came back home. _

“Help you find whoever it is that you’re looking for, I mean. And then you could finally have some rest. Sound good?”

A slow, heavy nod.

“Good. But, if I’m going to help you–” Gathering himself, Killua stands and paces languidly before the fire, throwing the giant a carefree smirk from over his shoulder. “I’m gonna need some payment.”

The giant’s brow furrows, and Killua imagines his little brain whirling furiously, trying to dredge up the concept of  _ money  _ from a human boyhood half-buried by time–

“Payment. Money. Shiny little metal discs that go  _ clink- _ clink when you drop them, you can use them to get things from other people. Any of this ring a bell?”

“Don’t have much,” the giant whispers in that soft, high voice of his, still resolutely staring at the flames.

Killua shrugs. “Huh. I figured as much.” He sits down, invisible weights pulling at his shoulders and spine. “So, here’s what will do. I’m going to help you find your target, and in return,  _ you _ will refrain from harming  _ anyone _ else. No ravaging villages, no assaulting travelers–”

“Ass _ ault- _ ing _?” _

“Hurting. You don’t hurt anyone else, and I’ll consider that payment.”  _ And anyway, I don’t think you like hurting people all that much. _

He remembers the way the giant had stared at his bloodied fist, remembers his lack of repulsion at Killua’s words,  _ I’m an assassin–At least, I  _ hope _ you don’t. _

He’s not sure why. 

He’s never quite managed to hope for anything like this before.

“Are we good?”

“People try kill me a lot, though. What…”

“I didn’t mean  _ those _ people. Of course you can still defend yourself.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The  _ crack _ of a succumbing log, and a shower of sparks racing to the sky.

Killua’s breath comes out in a sharp  _ whoosh.  _  “So, are we good?”

One of the campfire’s wandering sparks lands on the long, ragged tendrils of the giant’s beard. The dry, crusty hair catches alight, sending up fingers of sooty flame.

The giant pays no heed.

Hesitantly, shyly, Killua leans forward– but the giant is already standing, already vanishing into the think inky night, his beard leaving a bright trail of embers in its wake.

Killua springs up, an unvoiced  _ Wait  _ on his lips-

It’s too late. The giant is already gone.

Standing among a swirl of glittering ash, Killua watches as, one by one, the trail of tiny suns that mark his path slowly wink out.

_ I never got your name… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, SO.
> 
> I am still on vacation, so expect SLIGHTLY irregular updates for the next week and a half.
> 
> Don’t worry, this story is finished WELL in advance, I’m just posting it as I go.


	5. Chapter 5

You’re a person, aren’t you?

_ He’d heard the words, and it felt like coming home. _

_ Lying on his back, he raises his trembling hand, stares up at fingernails ragged and crusty from years of neglect. Years spent feeling the blood dry under them, until the word  _ monster _ had been carved into this body, this skin that wasn’t, would  _ never  _ be truly  _ his-

_ The star man had saw. _

_ He’s not sure how or why, but he’d saw. _

The me I used to be…

***

Killua’s sausages are disappearing.

He’s not entirely used to that sort of thing being a  _ problem— _ in his limited life experience,  _ food _ has been something that  _ appears _ , as if by magic, springing forth from the Zoldycks’ small army of servants like water from a spring. When in truth, he’s realized wryly, the situation is quite the opposite—food is something like holy water or jewels or small children, prone to disappearing entirely if not carefully monitored.

He’s taken a fair portion of Padokea’s finest sausages with him; lamb and pork and chicken and turkey, twenty-five of each, all smoked and delicately spiced both to keep them from spoiling and to add flavor. He’s used  _ Shu _ and his proficiency for Enhancement to extend their shelf life, carefully keeping them out of the reach of water and savoring one at breakfast and supper.

So it comes as a surprise when they start disappearing four times as fast as Killua can eat them.

_ Either someone—or some _ thing— _ is stealing from me— _

_ Or I’ve gone insane and started eating in my sleep.  _

Neither is a particularly compelling option.

By the third day since he’s discovered his thief’s work, Killua has resolved to stop sleeping in  _ Zetsu— _ while being discovered by a hostile party might prove disadvantageous to his health, slowly starving doesn’t sound all that much fun, either; and besides, with his  _ Godspeed _ , there would be very few beings that could successfully get the drop on him.

He’s awakened that night by footsteps—and a familiar tickle at the edges of his  _ En. _

_ It can’t be… _

Killua sits upright, gathers his bearing by the ghostly light of the moon, and looks down. He can’t see him but he definitely can  _ feel _ him, feel the familiar impetuous aura and hear the crunch of twigs and leaves as the ox of a man he is moves through the undergrowth…

Killua grins wryly.  _ I didn’t expect it to be  _ you. He leaps from the tree, lands in a crouch—and follows the giant, slipping into  _ Zetsu  _ as he glides through the forest in soundless steps.

His fanciful hunt, though, is interrupted by an unsettling reality; namely, that the giant isn’t actually going to do anything  _ interesting  _ with the sausages. 

Killua follows him to a cave, looming black and hungry in the darkness. A second later, the giant vanishes into the hillside. Killua tenses, preparing for—he doesn’t know what; but a second later, he hears deep, lumbering snores from the mouth of the cave.

Killua chuffs.  _ Of course he snores.  _ It’s one of those  _ little things,  _ one of the minor details that just make some variety of indescribable sense, like a puzzle piece falling into place, like a lute chord in harmony. The sun rises, the seasons change, and secretly-sensitive giants snore.

Though he certainly  _ is  _ glad that the giant slept beside no lover—

_ Wait.  _ Leaning against a pillar of stone right outside the mouth of the cave, Killua pauses, thoughts spiraling through his brain.   _ So if he was thirteen when he transformed, and it’s been five years since then— _

Killua vaguely remembers the realization— _ I’m  _ his _ age— _ shooting through his mind, right before he’d died for the first time– yet knowing it then, as he fell into space, nerves and muscles and aura burning from his reckless treetop flight, is a very different beast than knowing it  _ now,  _ enfolded in the peaceful darkness, the giant quietly asleep in his mountain home.

Killua frowns.

_ Five years.  _

Five years alone, in the woods, without family or lover or  _ friend _ , without  _ any _ human contact aside from the odd knight seeking his head on a pike.

Five years adrift, floating through life beyond the reach of words, of laughter. Beyond the things that gave  _ color _ to the world, gave  _ light _ ...

_ And here I thought  _ I  _ was lonely. _

Killua shuts his eyes and tries to picture a world where he’d been thirteen, thirteen and a monster mad with grief, a world in which he’s hunted, feared, never even  _ spoken _ to in  _ five years. _

_ Well, okay, if my family had gone five years without speaking to me, that would’ve actually been kinda nice. _

_ But  _ still—

No  _ wonder _ the giant had trouble talking.

Killua casts his aura to the snoring figure in the cave, feels the way the giant’s— _ he should have a  _ name—aura roils and pitches like a turbulent sea, like boiling clouds before a hailstorm—though with confusion and fear, not focused malice like the first time they met.

_ Is he dreaming? _

_ I wonder what he dreams about.  _ His eyes heavy with sleep, Killua slides down the stone and sits bonelessly, legs spread, his back to the rock and one hand resting limply on his knee. He tips his head back, smiling sadly as his eyes close, thoughts of a young hero and a Fae Arcknight filling his mind. 

_ Probably the same things I do… _

***

_ His dreams are the same as every night—fractured, senseless, the images shifting before his eyes to the rhythm of his chaotic heartbeat— _ here  _ a body of a woman torn to pieces by faerie wings,  _ there  _ another  lying before him, the hole that the Sidhe had cut in her stomach so,  _ so  _ red against her white gossamer gown - _

_ The Arcknight springing and Kite’s arm replaced by a glittering column of  _ red -

_ He’d screamed and screamed and  _ screamed  _ but the red had stayed and it  _ kept  _ staying, dyeing his vision and worming down his spine and through his veins and out his arm–out what had been his arm - _

_ Red red  _ red -

Blue.

_ On his fist. _

_ He hadn’t stopped there. He’d kept going. _

_ He wakes shivering and sweaty, all in one, and feeling like he would vomit up what little is in his stomach. _

_ Gradually, the fire abates from his mind as he takes in his surroundings, the sloping contour of the cave, the light filtering in from the entrance, the little chattering stream that runs down its length. _

_ He does not stop, does not take a moment to remind himself that such things as Kite and the Sidhe were five years ago- _

_ Another day. _

when does it end?  _ he asks the waiting sky. _

_ He rises, then walks out of the cave, his beard carving a neat furrow in the muddy floor behind him. _

_ And stops just outside. _

_ He  _ smells _ the intruder before he sees him, smells the lightning-sweet traces he’s left behind… _

_ The star man is here. _

_ He sleeps slumped against a boulder by the entrance, his head tilted back so that his fluffy white curls brush the stone. His mouth is open, a little stream of drool trickling down from its corner. The morning dew has found its way to his hair, lining its silky strands like so many pearls, like the ones he’d find sometimes when shucking oysters, the ones he’d collect for Aunt Mito… _

_ He’d tried to make a necklace for her, he recalls, the memory fresh and sweet as it drifts unbidden to his consciousness on the welcoming morning breeze. He hadn’t the skill to bore evenly through the pearls, though, and had cracked fifteen of them before finally presenting to her nothing but a handful of shimmering dust; but still she’d beamed at him, told him it was beautiful,  _ held _ him— _

I gave it up,  _ he thinks, a tightness like fists squeezing his heart, the maelstrom of his thoughts once more beginning to swirl.  _

_ His eyes begin to burn. All _ of it—why  _ am _ I—

_ He can ask this question again and  _ again _ , he knows; ask it a hundred times, a  _ thousand _ times, turn it over and over again in his mind until its jagged edges are worn smooth— _

_ His  _ Ten  _ twists—and with it, _ t _ he sound of feet crunching gravel. _

_ Before him, the star man stands up, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Huh? Wha…?” Catching sight of the giant, he says, his voice heavy with boredom and fatigue, “Oh. It’s you.” _

_ Silence. _

_ “You can put that aura away. I already  _ told _ you, I’m not here to hurt you.” _

Not here to hurt you.

_ It’s an unfamiliar concept. _

_He can remember a carefree childhood, all sunlit beaches and endless beckoning forests, his great-grandmother’s smile and cooking, his aunt’s stories and warm hugs and love—_ but I threw it all away, didn’t I _—he’d kept on running and_ racing _and chasing_ nothing _until the memories of his aunt were buried in the pain of broken arms and black eyes and split lips, until_ I’m here to hurt you _became the norm,_ I’m here to hurt you _they would say and he’d_ _reply time and time again,_ then I’ll just become stronger… _(and stronger and stronger and_ stronger _until he had nothing left to give, no new height to reach, until he’d wrung himself out like a pile of used-up rags—)_

I’m not here to hurt you.

_ What kind of a world  _ was  _ this? _

_ “Oi, you big loaf. Are you listening to me or  _ what?”

Words. 

He wants me to  _ talk _ to him… 

_ The sounds feel slick on his unpracticed tongue. “Oh–sorry…” _

_ “Well, as I was  _ saying _ ,” the star man continues with that pointy tongue of his, leaning back against the boulder and folding his arms behind his head, “we have a small problem. You’ve been stealing my sausages…” he raises an eyebrow,  _ “haven’t _ you?” _

_ Oh. Right. The sausages. _

_ The star man is  _ fancy _ , he’s realized—fancy skin and hair and teeth, fancy clothes, fancy weapons and armor all borne by his fancy black horse. His  _ food _ is fancy too, a bunch of different meats and herbs and berries and salts and spices all rolled up together in his sausages; and somewhere in the bottom of his heart, he hopes it’ll be the key—his own sort-of redemption, brought to him by  _ sausages  _ of all things… _

_ It hasn’t  _ worked _ , it hadn’t worked the three days he’d tried it before, but he still  _ hopes _ , clings to that desperate prayer that  _ maybethistime  _ things will be different. _

_ Maybe this time he'll be able to save his memory, at least. _

_The hands are_ back _, squeezing his heart with a cacophony of_ you failed, you couldn’t save him, you couldn’t _protect_ him—you can’t even _die_ like you **_said you would—_**

_ But he can’t turn his fist inwards. _

_“Oi. What’s with_ that Ren? _You’re weirdly protective of other people’s food, you know.”_

_ If he let it out—if he let spill this rambling thicket of a story, a tale of guilt and revenge and anger rending his soul… would the star man understand? _

_ If he speaks with the words he’s only just remembered, would he listen? _

_ “Come,” he whispers, under a ten-o’clock sky. He bounds backwards to the trees, motioning to the star man with his arm. _

_ “There’s... someone you… I want you to meet.” _

_ *** _

Killua’s experience with the giant—and Illumi’s ever-present unsolicited advice—tells him that this is a  _ bad idea,  _ spells it out for him in big bold capital letters; but, having no more pressing engagements, he follows the giant anyway, follows the deep footprints he leaves in the leaf litter and the steady  _ snap  _ of the unfortunate branches caught in his wake. 

As the giant leads him deeper and deeper into this old, moss-laden forest, he starts to see white scratches on the trees.

_ Foxbear territory. _

The knowledge, accrued from a childhood spent riding along the hunts of nobles, wires his senses taut. One wrong move here would mean a very furry, very painful death.

_ Is he leading me into a trap? _

He continues along behind the giant, careful to keep his steps silent, to disturb nary a twig.

_ …And shut up, Illumi. I’ve already had my chance at killing him and I wasted it. _

_ Because I like proving you right. _

_ Because I  _ like _ being a fuckup of an assassin apparently. _

“Here,” muses a voice ahead of him. Killua comes to a stop to find himself standing in a sunny clearing decked with early-spring wildflowers, their faces turned to greet the sun with their bold, vivacious fashions–columns of blue trumpets, deep orange ruffles outlined with gold, tiny white stars sprinkled across the floor of the mead like the Milky Way fallen to earth. An errant insect, still sleepy from winter, drifts lazily over the grassy span; and in the bushes, Killua spots the shocking red flash of a cardinal’s wings.

It  _ would _ be a perfectly peaceful scene—were it not for the bones.

Dotted through the meadow as if thrown by the tantrum of a god, they stand, their faces white, bleached by years of sun and rain, earth and wind. Well, _most_ of them, at least—a few, or more than a few still have shreds of meat clinging to them, filling the air with their stench.

Above the rotting flesh, flies buzz.

“What the hell is  _ this?” _ Killua says softly, stepping back, muscles and aura at the ready.

“Quiet. Don’t wake them,” the giant says by his side.

“Wake  _ who?”  _ Killua retorts, but the giant is already striding across the clearing. Wordlessly, Killua watches him go– and sees, between the trees, the mouth of a dark cave looming between a pair of boulders.  _ Cave  _ is the wrong word, really; it’s more of a  _ hole _ , far too small to hold a human, at least not comfortably, at any rate, and  _ definitely _ not one of the giant’s size.

The giant stops beside the hole. Unfurling his fist, he lets Killua’s half-crumbled sausages fall to the ground.

_ Hey,  _ Killua wants to shout—but the giant’s eyes find his own. Cautiously, he nods to Killua—and puts one finger to his lips.

_ What are you… _

The giant crouches beside the hole.

After a few breathless minutes, the giant stands, then strides back to Killua, a look of— _ grief? Regret?  _ Helplessness?—etched into his face. His brow furrows, his solid eyes shimmer, his lower lip pulls itself into a pout. And, in that moment, Killua can see all too clearly the bright-eyed young hero of the legends, overlaid onto the monster he’s become like shot silk. And Killua wants to  _ reach,  _ wants to take what little he knows of kindness and put it into his needle-sharp fingertips and hope that it’s somehow is enough to comfort all  _ three _ of them, the boy and the monster and the man he’s never got a chance to become…

“They ate the other ones, though,” the giant says, looking down at Killua, a hint of a sad smile tracing his lips. “So… thank you, star man.”

Any inquiry as to who the  _ they _ is immediately wiped from Killua’s mind as he realizes just  _ what,  _ exactly, the giant has called him—that the giant has  _ nicknamed  _ him— _ him _ , Killua Zoldyck, who has never been nicknamed before by anybody else unless one counted Illumi, who’d called him  _ pinprick  _ when he was fifteen and Killua four—

Nicknamed him something like  _ star man, _ at that.

“What the  _ hell  _ did you just call me?”

“Uh… star man? Because…”

“Well, cut it out,” Killua snaps, dropping his gaze. He steps back over a fallen log, instinctively putting distance between himself and the other man. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Um… How I call you, then?”

He feels his heartbeat climb.  _ “I _ don’t know. Something.  _ Anything _ . Just not  _ that.” _

A puzzled hint of a smile. “Okay… Something.”

_ Something.  _

(It sounds familiar, somehow.)

_ Is he  _ seriously _ going to call me that? _

But the slight, teasing grin beneath the giant’s beard says otherwise.

Killua resists the urge to facepalm.  _ Great. Did I just teach him sarcasm?  _

_ I think I just taught him sarcasm.  _

“Well, if you’re going to call me anything,” he says, slouching heavily against a tree, his voice rough, flippant, “then I  _ suppose _ your best option would be my name. Or, you know–” He leans forward, resting one foot on the log before him and ticking the giant’s options on his fingers. “You  _ could _ call me ‘Sire’. Or ‘Your Lordship’. Both of those are popular alternatives.”

A hint of dejection crosses the giant’s face; beneath his beard, the corners of his mouth crinkle into a frown.  He mumbles something that Killua is too far away to hear.

“Hah?”

“Just want to say—” the giant crosses the clearing and sits on the log besides Killua, who flinches, pulling his leg back and standing upright with all the tautness of a soldier–

The giant’s warm eyes find his own. “That I would like–call star man–his name.”

There’s a  _ tenderness _ sparking in his eyes, a warmth and vulnerability and openness that one was  _ never  _ supposed to show when addressing nobility— _ He isn’t lying.  _

_ He wants to get to know me. _

The thought sends an unfamiliar sensation, gentle and fizzy and lightheaded, racing down his nerves, an unadmitted  _ and I want to get to know you, too  _ following close behind. “Well, in that case—” Killua smiles as he sits down beside the giant, though they face opposite directions—“I’m Killua.”

No  _ Zoldyck  _ follows it, no  _ heir apparent to the Marquess of Padokea.  _

Only his name, and the whisperings of the gentle spring breeze.

_ Some place where I’m not a Zoldyck, not a murderer, not anyone’s son. _

He swivels on the log to face the clearing, tucking his legs underneath him; and the two of them sit, taking in the bone-strewn meadow, the flowers that grow cheerily in the midst of death, the birds and insects flitting about the trees—

His eyes shimmer.  _ Is this it? Is this the place? _

The sun steps out from behind a cloud, bathing the clearing before them in brilliant light. Killua squints, bringing one hand up to shade his eyes—but by his side, the giant does nothing more than let the dappled sunlight fall across his shoulders, turning his skin to bronze.

On the log, their hands inch closer, but do not touch.

“Killua,” the giant says, looking up at sunlit emerald leaves as if lost in thought. He says his name once more, as if testing it in the grip of his lips, his tongue.  _ “Kil-lu-a.” _

“Yup. You got it,” Killua teases, feeling a cheeky grin tug at his mouth. “What about you?”

The monosyllabic grunt that the giant gives has none of the floridness of  _ Killua Zoldyck— _ but, rugged and unassuming and earthy in its simplicity, it’s beautiful all the same.

“Nice to meet you… Gon.”


	6. Chapter 6

The night after he’s learned the giant’s name, Killua discovers he has a small problem—or perhaps  _ small  _ isn’t the correct wording.

_ Very large and furry  _ might be better.

As usual, he makes camp for the night in a suitably sturdy tree, climbing until he finds a bough thick enough and at the right angle to support him while he sleeps, and stashes his food and supplies on a nearby branch.

This night, however, the branch he’s found for his supplies is  _ just  _ a tad bit too thin.

He wakes up in the predawn darkness from a tossing, fragmentary dream of giant hands and golden eyes, to find the splintered end of the branch dangerously close to his head. 

Below him, he hears Squall’s tense, low whinny.

_ Danger. _

A faint light in the east, somewhere above the seemingly ever-present mist,speaks of dawn. Wrapping  _ Gyo  _ around his eyes, he begins to climb down through the murky light, feeling the first droplets of rain trickle down the nape of his neck.

He drops lightly to the ground, the leaf litter whispering at his touch. Squall stands just where he’s left her, snorting nervously and stomping her hooves, her eyes wild and white-

_ Great.  _ Just _ what I needed to wake up to.  _ He yawns. “Something the matter, I take it.”

A rustle in the undergrowth.

Hairs crawling up the back of his neck, Killua whirls—and by the light of his _hatsu_ , he sees a truly _enormous_ beast crash through the undergrowth, all russet-brown fur and lean muscle and teeth and jaws stretching into _infinity—_

The foxbear sniffs, cocking one ear towards this strange human wreathed in lightning.

Killua coils.  _ Shit _ . 

But the foxbear makes no move towards him, instead turning to a small, dark brown object hanging on a branch.

His bag.

With his food in it.

_ The sausages! He must’ve given them a taste for it… _

As if sensing his whirling mind, the foxbear turns toward him, sniffing as if judging its chances of claiming this little sparkly human and his horse for breakfast.

By his side, Squall whinnies, ears flat against her skull.

“I know,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve got this.”

And, bringing _Gyo_ to his legs, he springs, flipping up _over_ the foxbear in a lithe arc. He lands in a crouch and then _bounces,_ _Godspeed_ crackling around him as both he and the foxbear lunge—

His fingers close around the bag—and he’s  _ running,  _ world shooting past him in a lightning frame, a pair of russet-red jaws snapping shut around nothing.

They—and the  _ rest _ of the foxbear—follow him intently, gnashing at his heels. “You’re persistent, aren’t you?” Killua yells over his shoulder to the wind.

He turns his head back to forest before him—only to promptly run right into a wall.

A  _ human _ wall.

The giant— _ Gon _ —blinks down at him, and Killua looks up from where he’s smushed himself into Gon’s chest to see amber eyes sparking in the dawn, full of an unsaid  _ Killua, are you okay?  _ Killua peels himself off of Gon to see his scorch-mark silhouette firmly stamped onto Gon’s chest like so much overdone gingerbread.

“Careful. Foxbears always hunt with their—” 

“Their culinary senses engaged?!” Killua snaps, mouth agape. He whirls on Gon, poking him in the collarbone, forcing him into a sheepish retreat. “And you just  _ had  _ to go and get them to develop a taste for Padokea sausages,  _ didn’t  _ y—”

His words are cut off by a  _ crash  _ in the undergrowth—and  _ another  _ foxbear bounds out, slimmer and lighter than the other—

Gon swallows visibly. “With their mate.”

“Oh… Oh.”

_ Tasty humans  _ is the look that reigns in the second foxbear’s eyes.

Killua and Gon exchange glances.

“Oh.”

“Crap.”

It crouches to spring—and Killua, his mind spinning with options ranging from  _ mildly crazy  _ to  _ perfectly insane,  _ does the one thing that could barely even qualify as sane.

He bends down.

And chops the back of Gon’s knees with the edge of his hand.

The other man stumbles, his knees folding. Killua catches him, sweeps him off his feet, and bundles him over one shoulder.

And takes off running.

He lets  _ Godspeed _ surround him once more, paying Gon’s squawked “ _ tickles!”  _ no heed.  _ Up the hill,  _ a little voice—not Illumi’s—urges in the back of his mind. He complies, racing up the steep, sloping ground at breakneck speed, dodging boulder after boulder—Something flies in his face, something long and dark and stringy and smelling absolutely  _ awful— _

Hair.

_ Gon’s _ hair.

His “horn”, Killua notices, has come unraveled, the long, greasy, green-black hairs whipping into his face like strands of washed-up seaweed, tickling him, making him sneeze.

_ Blinding  _ him—and when one is going nearly forty miles an hour, being blinded by  _ anything,  _ up to and including the world’s worst dreadlocks job, would prove  _ very _ disadvantageous.

Killua doesn’t notice the crest of the hill.

Only that, suddenly, the ground beneath him no longer slopes  _ up. _

And he’s  _ rolling _ , feet whisked away from under him, he and Gon tumbling down the grassy slope in a blur of tangled limbs, rolling over and over and  _ over _ each other until they come to a breathless halt, buried in lush flowers, Killua slumped on Gon’s chest—

He lifts himself onto all fours and looks down at gon.

A steady stream of blood trickles from Gon’s nose.

He doesn’t move.

A cold, strange note of fear echoes within Killua’s heart as he sits up, hands jerking away from Gon as if it’s  _ Gon  _ with the lightning,  _ Gon _ who’s shocked  _ him  _ and not the other way around—

Amber eyes spring open. “ _ Wow.  _ Killua  _ fast _ . _ ” _

Oh.

Killua stands up entirely too quickly, dashing away from Gon to sit crosslegged in the grass several feet away.

He studies the budding daisy heads. “It’s nothing.”

Gon rolls over onto his stomach, propping his chin in his hand, his feet swaying in the spring breeze. “I mean it, Killua. Eben if it’s dothing.”

The blood glistening under his nose has converted Gon’s speech to something suspiciously duck-like.

“Shut up.” The flowers do nothing even under Killua’s intense scrutiny. “And anyway,” he mumbles brusquely, half wishing that the words wouldn’t be heard, “we need to get that nose of yours fixed up.”

“Dose is  _ fine. _ Been through—”

_ Worse. _

Killua looks to the stump of Gon’s arm, to the buzzing flies that gather there.  _ You have. _

He bows his head.

_ I know. _

_ I have too. _

He stands, not trusting his legs, and steps over to Gon. “Even so—” his mouth is suddenly dry—“it must hurt.”

A puzzled, sad look in Gon’s eyes as he shakes his head. “Not feeling pain much anymore… if that makes sense…”

“Just  _ shut up  _ and  _ let me do this,  _ you dumbass.”

Gon props himself up on his arm, looking up at Killua with a bewildered softness. “Hold on,” Killua says, his voice gravelly, low; his gaze darting about the meadow, stubbornly refusing to land anywhere near Gon. “So, you got anything you could use as a rag, or…”   
Gon pulls on what little is left of his undershirt. “This do?” 

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s  _ generally  _ considered acceptable social practice to wear clothes. Now, let’s see…”

Killua’s eyes widen with the realization that his traveling pack—the whole  _ reason _ for  this affair—is nowhere to be found; and with that, he turns on his heel and scrambles back up the hill, never looking back at the solitary figure behind him.

***

_ Blood. _

_On the star man’s_ _hair._

_ Blood. _

_ Red and coppery and vile and  _ red—

_ He squeezes his eyes shut, so hard it hurts.  _ I couldn’t protect you—

_ Unnoticed, his  _ Ren  _ chars the grass. _

***

Killua eventually recovers his pack—or what’s  _ left  _ of his pack, anyway.

Turns out that  _ both  _ foxbears had shared the same expensive tastes as himself, in food  _ and  _ in clothing, for he arrives to find the bag beyond ripped open, the sausages long gone (and a good portion of the cheese and bread besides), and his fashions, his carefully hand- and  _ hatsu-  _ crafted fashions of nothing but the finest silks and velvets, damasked and brocaded with glittering thread and embroidered emblems traced with glass beads—

Caught on a bush, a scrap of white flutters—a lace cuff in its former life.

The grass smiles up at him as if to say,  _ thank you, kind sir, for outfitting me for a ball. _

Killua screams a little.

After recovering what he can, (the foxbears, in their sadistic wisdom, had left his  _ inexpensive  _ traveling supplies mostly intact) he starts once more down the hill, entirely-too-fine makeshift rag in hand.

To say he  _ walks  _ would be a misunderstanding.

The dew and the morning rain have thoroughly glazed the hillside before him, and his attempt to start down the hill in a fashion befitting a noble heir backfires—he soon finds himself sliding down the hill on his ass in a barely controlled fall, his tailbone taking every opportunity it can to find new and interesting rocks to land on.

Wincing, Killua stands up and enters the meadow where he’d left Gon—

And stops.

Gon is sitting in a neat ring of dead burnt grass.

Killua swallows the absent words on his tongue. “Something happen?”

He receives no response.

As if he could shatter the air around him with just a touch, he walks to Gon, the grass swishing around his feet.

Gon’s nose is still bleeding.

Letting out a shaky breath, Killua steps into the circle of brown and kneels beside Gon. “Here.” He holds out the scrap of cloth, unable to look him in the eye. “Hold this to your nose until the bleeding stops.”

Gon complies, and the embroidered white cashmere turns red. “Dhanks.”

Killua sits back on the grass, legs stretched out before him. Gon’s face is shadowed, he notices, his brow etched with a long-forgotten pain.

The charred blades crumple in Killua’s restless fist. 

_ It wasn’t me that made him bleed. _

_ It  _ wasn’t.

Wordlessly, he gets up and rifles through what’s left of his bag, memories like spiders racing around underneath his skin.  _ I’m good on candles and medical supplies,  _ he thinks.  _ And I’ve still got my sleeping-roll and all my weapons. _

_ I guess all I really need now is  _ food _ , huh… _

A messy snort. “Killua?”

“Hn?”

“Thank you.” Gon swallows audibly. “For… for giving me back my name.”

Silence, broken only by their quiet breaths, and Killua’s pulse.

The sky above him turns from pebble-gray to white banded with blue, revealing verdant hills stretching out before them, dappled with the shadows of clouds. At their feet, raindrops glitter like fallen stars.

“Gon?”

“Nmm?”

“What do you usually do for food?”

***

Killua didn’t know what he was expecting when he asked that question.

Gon lured him along with a cheerful  _ you’re in luck, Killua— _ and now the two of them stand by a marshy lake, the fallen skeletons of trees half-submerged at its margins. Above the greenish, weed-choked water, clouds of insects buzz.

Killua wrinkles his nose. “So…  _ what _ , pray tell, are we doing here? And why did you say ‘you’re in luck’?”

“ _ Whitegill  _ season! Killua knows whitegill… right?”

Mollified, Killua drops his gaze, his hands shoved tightly into his tunic pockets. “I  _ have _ ,” he mutters from the corner of his mouth. “I’ve just… never gone fishing before…”

Gon blinks, smiles childishly and wide. “Perfect start time, huh?” Without waiting for Killua’s response, he turns and bounds through the shallows, tossing glittering droplets in his wake.

Killua follows nonchalantly, staunchly refusing to look at the water at all costs.  _ You’re frustratingly difficult to shock. I know a lot of peasants would’ve hated me had I admitted I’d never been fishing before. _

_ And that’s not even bringing in the assassin thing. _

_...Just what the  _ hell _ are you being so kind for?  _

“We’re here.” Before Killua can shy away, Gon reaches out and pulls him onto a broad, shallowly-sloped boulder that gently rises from the lake. Killua complies, scrambling up beside Gon, his feet finding purchase on dips in the stone. “So,” he begins dryly, folding his arms over his chest, “how, exactly, are you going to show me how to fish without a rod?”

Killua sees a hint of a grin find Gon’s lips. “You’ll see.” And with that, he  _ leans,  _ dropping into a runner’s lunge, his massive shoulders spread over the water like wings.

The granite crumbles where his feet dig in.

_ Wings… _

Killua watches as the silvery, darting forms of fish fill Gon’s shadow.  _ Like a heron. _

“What do you think?” Gon whispers. “Clever, right? I learned it from—”

“The herons.” Killua can’t resist adding a cheeky, “Okay, now you’re  _ officially _ smarter than you look.”

“Thanks, Killu—whaa— _ hey!” _

Killua is promptly rewarded for his insolence by a whitegill slapping him upside the head. He laughs. “Well, if the shoe  _ fits— _ ”

Gon blows him a raspberry.

“And stand back,” he warns, once his tongue is safely back inside of his mouth. “Might get wet…”

Killua has no time to inquire  _ what’ll get wet  _ before he sees the aura glowing in Gon’s fist.

_ Shit. _

To his credit, Gon doesn’t punch him.

Instead, he punches the water.

And Killua finds himself enveloped in a virtual _tsunami_ of lake, and bugs, and fish, and little green _floaty_ things that possess both an impressively foul taste and an even more impressive talent for finding his tongue.

And nose and eyes, for that matter.

Killua spits out a glob of algae—with worm in tow.

It lands on Gon’s cheek—right as an errant fish falls from the sky to land itself with a pronounced  _ slap,  _ smack-dab in the midst of Killua’s fluffy white curls.

Which are now green.

Killua and Gon look at each other for a long minute—and, in the end, Killua isn’t sure  _ which  _ one of them starts laughing first.

All he knows is the blue sky and the sunlit waters—and Gon, the famed monster of Mitene, beside him; looking down at him with a smile budding on his mouth.

All he can feel is the warmth in Gon’s eyes.

***

There is one major downside to Gon’s method of fishing—namely, that one has to actually  _ collect  _ the far-flung fish.

Gon  _ himself _ proves rather adept at that, finding his scaly snacks buried in tree stumps, in muddy, weed-choked eddies and beaver holes and eagle’s nests. Killua, however… not so much.

He takes several suspicious-looking worms to the shoe before collecting his share of the fish—and now he stands, ankle-deep in thick, oozing mud with a wriggling mound of fish in his arms that nearly touches his chin, counting the seconds until Gon returns.

_ Come on now… _

One of the fishes on the top manages to wriggle itself off, diving for the water with breathless, fishy shouts of  _ freedom!  _

Which would not have been unfortunate had that brave fish not inspired its comrades with a helpful nudge of its tail—but it  _ has; _ and now Killua watches as a veritable scaly, flopping avalanche unfolds before him.

With nary a free hand to arrest his catch.

He groans.  _ Gon, when you get back I’m seriously gonna… I don’t know… _

A series of  _ squish _ es heralds the man in question’s arrival. Killua turns to see Gon steps out from the tree-choked channels near the lake’s outlet, tiny floating leaves rippling around his calves.

Empty-handed.

Gon gives Killua’s  _ own _ fishless arms a long, puzzled,  _ what happened _ look. 

Killua shrugs. “I dropped them…? And just what happened to  _ yours,  _ anyway?”

Gon’s cheeks tilt up into a sheepish smile. “…Ate them.”

_ “Ate  _ them?”

“What  _ else  _ do you do with fish?”

“Well,  _ normally—”  _ Killua ticks the steps on his fingers—“you’d  _ cook  _ them first, so as not to have, oh,  _ I _ don’t know, all manner of  _ lake _ bugs taking up residence in your stomach, but—”

“Mm. Fine if you eat them fresh, though.”

Killua nearly gags, silently thanking the gods that his fish have escaped before this conversation took place. “ _ Fresh?” _

“Yeah!” Gon exclaims. “Better if they're cooked so you can add… taste, but sometimes you want to eat them right out of the—Killua, are you okay? Sorta blue…”

“Mmmfine,” Killua groans, face buried in the crook of his elbow. “Just… stop talking…”

“Okay.” Gon’s unpracticed cheeks blossom into a grin. “But,” he can’t resist adding, “they kinda tough to swallow when they wiggle—”

_ “Aaaaargh.” _

***

“Hey, Killua?”

“Hnh?” Killua grunts, his attention on the crackling flames before him as he skewers one fish, then another of the blade of his rapier propped above the hearth. So far, without spices to back it up, the white, flaky texture of the whitegill has made for quite the disappointing meal.

_ But I guess it’s all I’ve got now… _

The two of them sit beneath the deep gray slab of limestone that forms the entrance to Gon’s cave. Since Killua’s disastrous first attempt—and second successful attempt—at fishing, the afternoon sky has clouded up, turning leaden with rain. And now it gushes, gently drumming on the roof of the cave, trickling down the walls in shimmering, clay-laden rivulets and lending the world outside a silver-blue sheen.

Miniature puffs of steam hiss where the drops from the roof find the flames.

“Just wondering…” Gon’s back is toward Killua as he sits, arm hugging his knees, in the other corner of the stone overhang. His head hangs low, so that the carved line of his shoulders obscures his face from Killua. Yet the smile in his voice is undisguisable as he says, “If we… maybe do runny thing—the running thing again?”

_Running thing…_ Killua’s mind flies back to that morning, tracing the memory of the foxbears, their desperate flight through the forest, the valiant last stand of most of his clothes…

The two of them tumbling down a lush, velvet-green hill in a tangle of limbs and adrenaline and sparks; Gon, sitting defeated in the midst of a scorched ring of grass; his own hand trembling as it held out the rag.

_ Gon’s hand, warm and callused around his wrist as he hauled him up onto the rock…  _ “You mean  _ Godspeed.” _

“Oh, you call it that?  _ Really _ cool name—”

Killua’s fingers twist an errant pebble—back and forth, back and forth. “It’s okay. I guess.”

“ _ More  _ than okay!” A hint of righteous indignation colors Gon’s voice as he flops on his back, his wild tail of hair curling behind him like a snake. He turns his head, and a pair of pupilless amber eyes find Killua. “ _ Awesome!” _

Killua hides his gaze.

“I don’t  _ seen  _ a thing… power like that before, and it’s got the  _ greatest name,  _ too—” Propping himself on elbow and stump, Gon inches closer to Killua, holding him in his gaze the way amber would a fly. “Hey, um, how’d you do it? Because, you know, people say it’s  _ really really hard  _ to make something out of aura that hu—”

_ “Stop.” _

He can still feel the phantom blood seep through his ears.

Gravel crumbles in his fist.

“Killua, is something wro—”

_ Canary’s voice shrill and high and  _ broken _ as the lightning in the man’s whip branded her back, and then his  _ own _ screams, harsh and earsplitting on the black dungeon walls, the raking noise barely identifiable as  _ words—i’ve got it mom I know it now you can  _ stop _ please  _ stoppleasestop pleaseSTOP— _

He feels sick.

“I _ said. Stop.” _

His hands are shaking as he pulls the fish free of their makeshift skewer and throws them onto the coals. Gon’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open. “But, Killua—”

Footsteps on gravel.

And Gon is alone, and his star man rides through the woods, face tilted to the sky, letting the silver light of raindrops glide down his face like tears.

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm very very sorry for not updating this for LITERAL WEEKS, I got distracted -_-


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter is mildly nsfw (no explicit actions but some imagined nudity :))
> 
> If you need to skip that part, again look for the scene break with _five_ asterisks instead of three.

_His star man is asleep._

_Finally._

_It had taken him a while._

_Gon tilts his head back to look up at Killua, nestled in the branches among the dusty light of dawn. He sleeps sitting up, his back flush against the trunk of the majestic pine, his legs spread wide across the needle-lined boughs. His head is slumped to the side, resting open-mouthed against another branch._

_Even without Gyo, (his aura is_ still _slippery, he’s noticed; it bends and thrashes and struggles whenever he tries to bring it somewhere aside his arm—) he can still hear Killua’s breaths, relaxed at last and coming quiet and deep and steady the way the waves on Whale Island had, half a lifetime ago…_

_His aunt would be awake now, he knows; awake and busy at breakfast with great-grandma Abe. Soon—he maps out her steps through the foggy memories of their house in his mind—soon she would step out into flower-dotted pastures and whistle to the sheep, and they would come running, bouncing over the dew-bright grass._

_Gon slumps against the tree, as if broken from a long, hard fight. The morning sun rises, its warmth sinking into his body as if to dig out the boy he’d once been from the shell of the giant that surrounds him. His hand trembles as he raises it to the branches—and the sky beyond._ Killua… are you there? I’d like to make it a good day again today—if I can...

***

Killua wakes after a restless, fragmented night to see the fresh glow of a sunlit morning seeping in through the trees. He’s slept high up again; the forest hums below him, sparkling with the promise of a brilliant new day.

He feels cold.

The sound of breathing below him—and he twists his head from where he’s buried it in his knees to see a figure sitting beside the pine’s great roots, head rested listlessly against one knee. The morning light casts his skin in bronze, his hair to a rich forest green.

Gon sits quietly. Like a statue.

A stone.

“…Gon?”

Silence.

The leaves whisper in the morning breeze. From his perch, he sees Gon look up through the branches with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, _there_ you are. I was thinking I found the wrong tree.”

Killua swings off the branch, then leaps lightly down to the shadowed side of the tree. “…Don’t tell me you were there the whole night.”

“Not all of it, no.” A soft chuff from behind him. “Little difficult finding you at first. You’re _way_  good at hiding.”

Killua swallows hard. At his side, his hand furls into a fist.

His breaths are ragged against the morning sky.

“…Why?”

Gon chirps, “Why what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Why did you stay at the foot of this damn tree all night.”

“Because.” The sound of crackling undergrowth, and Killua _feels,_ rather than sees, Gon move closer to him. “…You looked lonely yesterday.”

The steady drumbeat of blood in Killua’s ears.

“Like you needed company.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Killua hazards a glance over one shoulder to find his companion silhouetted against the morning sun. Gon is _smiling_ , he notices; the curves of his cheeks plump and full and brushed by dyed-gold eyelashes; the corners of his eyes crinkling. The stray wisps of hair that curl free from his beard turn emerald, backlit by light.

He turns back to face Killua as the sunlight streams around him—and, in that moment, it seems that Gon holds _all_ the forest inside of him; that if Killua were to look, he’d see just where he belongs in that smile, in his calloused hands and sparkling eyes…

Killua squints.

And turns away.

“ _Lonely?”_

“Well, yeah!” A chuffing laugh, and Gon puts his arm to the back of his head. “We were talking, you know, last day while you cooked the fish—”

“I _know_ what we were doing yesterday. I was there.” Killua bites his lip. “Dumbass.”

“—And I said about I wanted to go running with you again, and then you got kind of…” Gon’s voice shrivels, his smile tumbling away.  “Dark, I guess? Like...”

“Don’t tell me what I was like.”

Silence falls, thick and drenching as Gon steps away, once more turning his face to the eastern light.

Killua throws his shoulders back, crosses his arms over his chest, stands prickly and solemn in the morning light. “And you could _never_ understand half the things I’ve been through. Half the things I was thinking about then.”

 _Himself at six, huddled in the corner as the lightning left, spasms wracking his aching arms as his consciousness flickered, the throb of his burns the only thing_ real…

His gut twists. _What would you do if you knew?_

“Killua?”

“What.”

Gon’s voice floats, filling the air at his back with the weight of gathering rain. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

“But I _am.”_

 _“Why?”_ Killua growls, itching to stomp over to Gon and maybe slap him upside the head. _Pap damn_ _it, you’re insufferable. Go find someone_ else _to mother._

 _Someone_ _who deserves it, at least._

“For what I’m about to say.” Gon’s voice is spiced with mischief—and if Killua turned around, he’d find him grinning. “Because, seriously. It _was amazing!”_

The rush of wind in the trees.

Killua does not turn as Gon continues, the words gushing past their banks, “I’m not lying. It seriously was. You were glowing all blue that morning, and you were going _so fast._ Like you were a human shooting star, or a—”

“Bolt of lightning,” Killua can’t resist commenting. “Where do you think I got the idea?”

“Um. Right. _Anyways,_ you were going so fast that you were kinda a blur? Like I couldn’t see you all that clearly… And then the foxbears came, and you swept me off my feet—”

Killua clears his throat. “I did nothing of that sort.”

“And then we were _running_ and it felt like I was flying and the world was going by all in a blur and…” He pauses for breath before continuing, “And then we _were_ kinda flying, I guess… when you dropped me. And it was like—”

Killua’s eyes go wide, stolen away from the sunrise.

“It was like I was alive again,” Gon finishes, and Killua watches as his throat convulses. “The way I used to be.”

The wind rustles. Gon drops his gaze.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird sings.

“Gon?”

“Mm?”

“What would you say if I told you—hypothetically—what was done to me?” Killua’s voice is very small. “What my parents did?

“Hypowhatnow?”

Killua rolls his eyes, silently welcoming the break in the tension. “Hypo- _thetically._ Like _,_ it didn’t really happen. But if it _had_ , what would you say?”

“About what?”

“About my—” Killua swallows. “About my past.”

“Why would I say anything?”

“Because you’d be horrified. Afraid.” He feels cold. “You’d think I was a monster.”

And Killua watches as Gon, still silhouetted against the rising sun, _crumples_.

He takes a few aimless steps before sitting down with an audible _thud,_ all the while staring sightlessly at his remaining hand.

He furls the fingers, one by one. Around him, aura writhes.

“…Gon?”

“Mmm. I’m okay, Killua. Just sad.”

Killua exhales audibly. _Of course. I forgot who I was talking to._ A dry laugh. “Same.”

He walks over to Gon with slow, heavy steps—and sits crosslegged beside the other man.

And together, they watch the morning sun paint their world.

***

 _“You’re not a monster,” he tells Killua some time later, and watches as the other man’s eyes turn wide and_ impossibly _blue._

_“You don’t know everything, idiot.”_

_“No. You aren’t. Because if you were, your aura would twist.”_ Like mine.

_In his mind, blue and red mix on his fist._

_Killua springs to his feet. “I—I have to go.”_

_“Huh? Where? Why?”_

_“To do laundry,” Killua shoots back over his shoulder as he leaves. “And to take a bath.”_

_And with that, his star man is gone._

_*****_

_Gon drifts through the morning in a half-asleep haze, dreams crisscrossing one another at the speed of light—the blue of fae blood melting into the deeper blue of Killua’s eyes, flowing silver hair on death-pallored cheeks—_

_When he wakes, he is cold, though the sun is already half-high._

Killua… where are you right now?

_He thinks of the shadow he’d seen in his star man’s eyes, hands like knives shaking as the rock turned to dust in his fist._

Are you still mad at me?

 _He throws up his arm to shield his eyes from the raking light of the sun, and thinks of Killua, prickly and sharp and graceful and hiding every little bit of himself. Killua’s eyes, the color of gemstones and the sky at midday; Killua, who’d leapt above the tree on another night, shining like a star fallen to earth—and he’d_ chased, _felt the thrill of the hunt leap through his veins—_

 _The sharp slant of his jaw, the curve of his lips—_ he’d said he was taking a bath, hadn’t he— _In his mind, Gon sketches out the contours of Killua’s jaw and throat and collarbone, imagines water sparkling on a chest white and marble-firm in his mind, imagines the droplets falling past his navel to reach... Would_ he _have the same nest of curls around his cock, spilling over onto the tops of his thighs?_

Or is that just a _me_ thing?

 _He lets his mind wander further, lets it follow past Killua's groin and the taut swell of his buttocks to picture the water glimmering on the tapered angles of his thighs... and feels_ warm, _feels his heart rush to below the pit of his stomach and do something he can't name, need something he's barely ever_ felt…

Killua... do you ever feel this way?

***

Scars.

Lining his body as he pulls off his clothes and beats the dirt out of them, as he lets the water run over them both.

They’re _always_ there, staring up at him, a record of his childhood carved into his skin. On his collarbone, the perfect suction-cup circles of burns from where Milluki had snuffed his pipe, still red and glossy a decade after the fact; on his back a demented jigsaw of lash marks—(Thirty-four, he recalls with sudden clarity. He’s been whipped thirty-four times.) Fainter burns stretch down his arms, the marks of a half-remembered electrocution he’d spent in a childhood haze. His eyes follow the lines of his legs to the jagged gash of another scar, the trace of a broken leg from his first ever _serious_ fight, when he’d been six…

Feet, the toes twisted and callused, nails split from running. Hands, that had opened countless throats, that had been broken time and time again until the bones were thrice as hard.

He _knows_ weapons; knows that even the sharpest sword will show its dings, given time.

_Is that what I am?_

He puts one hand to his wrist, tracing the blue of his veins. His heart beats, steady and defiant and _uselessly…_

 _Gon, if you saw this body… if you saw me as I_ truly _am, what would you think?_

***

Killua, all things considered, does an absolutely _horrible_ job washing his clothes.

He can ape the movements of the washerwomen at Kukuro Castle easily enough (minus the Conjured soap), he can beat his clothes against the stream’s lining of boulders until both he and his knuckles are blue in the face—but his clothes _still_ smell like lake water.

Lake water, and tiny uninvited guests.

_And… shit. I only really have one outfit now…_

Pushing aside the realization of the grimy, smelly, tragically _fashionless_ future he’s devoted himself to, Killua rises, then dresses, (in his clothes from yesterday, and the day before…)  mounts Squall and gallops off to find breakfast.

He returns with his ducks in a row.

Literally.

The five birds he’s managed to catch lie on their backs before him on the ground, wings outstretched as if in flight. Singed feathers curl on their breasts, drenched in deep red.

That same red had traced his fingertips.

“So I guess I have to prepare, you, huh…” _Now if only I knew_ how.

Killua grimaces, his brow furrowing. _You just… I don’t know, reach in there and take out the guts?_ He closes his eyes, dredging up long buried memories of his childhood at Kukuro Castle—and _there,_ wedged between a sleepless night scrubbing his blood-drenched hands and a string of pipe burns blistering down his collarbone lies the butcher, her hands red and dripping as the marbled pork turns, jellylike, under her knife-

She had _smoked_ them, he remembers; he can see his younger self standing on the hard-packed mud of the castle courtyard, watching as the deep gray cloud puffed its way into the sky, knowing that it would mean delicious, warm piles of meat snuck from kitchens later that night…

Killua frowns. _Smoked them with_ what? _Do you just hold them over a fire until they’re done? Wouldn’t that be just cooking them, though?_

Shrugging, he bends down—and starts to open the breast of the first duck.

Duck one: liver crushed by Killua’s hands, leaving a slimy mess of bile-scented meat. Duck two: dropped on the forest floor and swiftly nabbed by a passing badger. Duck five: by the time he gets back from gathering cedarwood for his smoking-fire, the meat has started to smell, blue-glass flies alighting on its feathers. Ducks three and four, however, he has managed to smoke, or at least cook; and now he sits crosslegged amongst the undergrowth, devouring duck thighs in a _far_ greedier manner than had ever been seen by the nobility of Kakin. The meat is far, far blander than he would have liked, but his hunger has taken control.

Somewhere, he senses his mother having an aneurysm.

 _“Killuaaaa?_ Did you get breakfast?” calls a voice from the trees, and his heart lightness at the sound.

 _“Yeah!”_ he shouts back.

“Can I have some?”

 _“Get your own food! You_ _already ate all the fish.”_

The sound of running footsteps, and rustling undergrowth—and Gon is _gone_ , vanishing into the lengthening shadows. The trees fall silent once more, steadfastly concealing their lord.

Killua smiles.

***

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

His dreams are filled with moments from the past few days, racing behind his eyelids in time with the frenzied throb of his heart—Gon’s eyes, molten in the firelight as the blood dried on his fist; his hand at the small of Killua’s back, luring him into a deadly embrace-

The glimpse of Gon’s smile he’d gotten beneath that ferocious beard, the way he’d laughed as the fish fell into Killua’s hair.

His hand, warm around Killua’s wrist as he pulled him on the rock-

His own hand goes to his wrist, now, as he lies nestled in a tree draped in night, tracing the lines of Gon’s touch over and over as if to etch that moment into his heart.

  


 


	8. Chapter 8

illua had _planned_ for the duck and a half he’s managed to successfully save to last him for the next couple of mornings, but he rises that morning—the first warm, humid morning of the year—to find _something_ growing in his meat, something that smelled like the lake by Kukuro Castle after Mike relieved himself in it.

Killua feels vaguely queasy. _Pap_ damn _it._

_Now I’ve got—what? The last little bit of honey and some nuts?_

_Wait. Cured meat always tastes_ salty…

_I forgot the salt._

The force of his realization brings his palm to his forehead with a stinging _slap. Pap damn it, I forgot the_ fucking salt.

 _How much salt do you even_ need, _anyways?_ he questions to himself, looking down at the spoiled meat in his hand. _Enough so that the flavor changes, I know… but the butcher at Kukuro Castle always used to rub spices into it, too… and_ smoking _changes the flavor_ too _, doesn’t it…_

He groans, tossing his would-be lunch on the forest floor. _I’m sort of starting to miss being nobility._

He stomps away—and freezes, an idea fizzing in his veins, pulling his cheeks into a grin. _Wait._

***

_“Hey, Gon.”_

_The brusque voice bounces off the back of the cave, returning to his ears nearly three times as loud._

_Gon looks up, blinking sleep from his eyes, to see Killua standing in the entrance to the cave, backlit by cloudy morning light. His shadow falls, long and slender, across the gravel-and-mud floor to reach where Gon’s curled up on his side._

_Heart fluttering, cheeks lit up by a grin, Gon rolls to his left side and pushed himself into a sitting position, then yawns, deep and low and letting it ripple through his body—_ all _of it. A slow, steady throb comes from the sleep-stiff stump of his arm; and behind him, his mud-plastered hair cracks. “Huh?”_

_“This is a little embarrassing, but…” Killua’s face is shadowed, but Gon can hear the scowl in his voice all the same. Killua folds his arms over his chest. “...How do you cure meat?”_

_“How do you what?”_

_“Cure meat._ You _know, where you smoke and salt it to prevent it from spoiling.” His star man’s pointy tongue is back, it seems._

_“Oh!” Gon’s eyes widen as a flood of memories spills from some locked-away corner of his heart—an afternoon spent shoulder to shoulder with his aunt and great-grandmother, their hands damp with the runoff from the butchered lamb and dusted with herbs and salt, the smoke from the hearth making their eyes and mouths water—_

_He has no right to these memories, he knows; no right to the invisible things that prick his heart._

_“Well, my aunt always...” Gon blinks back the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes—“first she’d go to the beach and make—wait—are we by the ocean? Do you know?”_

_“No, I don’t. Go on.”_

_Gon blinks. “…Well, okay, but it be hard without salt.”_

_“I know that. I was hoping you’d know where to get some.”_

_“Maybe one of the villages nearby? Lot of people sell salt, even in small towns,” Gon says with a helpless shrug. Still sitting, he swivels to bring his legs out in front of him, letting them stretch, bent loosely at the knee. “Anyway, she’d go down to the shoreline, get some water, then—”_

_“I know how you get salt. I just need to know what you do to the meat itself.”_

_“Oh.” He giggles a little. “Sorry, Killua. Anyways, afterwards, she’d get the herbs and the wood for smoking—you have to be careful here, as each wood’ll make the meat—uh, the smoke gets in the meat, and if it doesn’t match what you want it won’t taste as good. So anyway—” he can feel Killua’s eyes boring into him at this flood of long-held words—“after you’ve gotten all the spices and everything, you mix spices with the salt and you rub the meat.” The puzzled tilt of Killua’s mouth. “With the spices, I mean. Oh, but, first you have to start the fire and put the smoking wood on. Give it time to catch. Make sure the fire not too high, though; you’re not_ actually _cooking it right now. You’ll cook when it’s ready. So after you got your fire going—”_

_“Okay, thanks. Got it.” Killua turns to leave._

_“Wait! I wasn’t done.” Gon raises his hand towards Killua’s retreating back. The other man stops and turns, diligently._

_“So,” Gon continues, once he’s recaptured his breath, “while you’re getting your fire going, you take the salt and spices that you mixed together, and rub them into the meat. You have to be quick about it, and really rub them in thoroughly; it’ll spoil if you don’t. Don’t do too much meat at once. Once you’ve got it all rubbed together, you place it over the fire and let it smolder. Make sure you smoke it somewhere small—” In the gray half-light, he sees Killua’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushed with dawning failure. “It’ll take a while until it’s done; lots of hours. And make sure you put the meat somewhere dry, where not a lot of things can get to it. If you store it somewhere wet it’ll spoil.”_

_Killua’s jaw just about drops to the cave floor. “Wow. And all this from someone who eats his fish still squirming.”_

_“Well, it’s a little bit hard for me to cook…” His voice trails off. Distantly, he feels Killua’s eyes on the stump of his arm._

And besides, nobody would sell me salt or spices even if I asked…

_He swallows back a flood of sad. “You got that, Killua?”_

_“Um... yeah.” His star man leans with affected nonchalance against the cavern wall, one hand pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his tunic. “I’m not really sure where we’d find an enclosed space to smoke the meat, though…”_

_“Oh, that’s easy, Killua,” Gon chirps, eager to lighten the mood. “We’ll just, um, ah…” His eyes dart like fish in a trap._

_“You have all the ideas I have, huh?”_

_“It’s okay,” Gon says with a reassuring smile as he rises, looking back over his shoulder at the Gon-shaped imprint he’s left in the mud. “I’ll find us breakfast.”_

_And with, that, he steps, blinking, out into the watery sunshine._

Herbs.

Plants.

You’ve done this before.

 _He lets the forest enfold him, lets it lure him ever deeper into its hidden green recesses, keeping his concentration firmly on the dotted leaves beneath the undergrowth. He had thought the plants here would be too unfamiliar to the Whale Island flora to find something useful, but the more he looks, the more he sees the forest’s gifts._ There’s some fennel, that might be good, depending on what we catch…  parsley, too… I wonder if Killua would like cilantro?

 _A memory rises to the forefront of his mind; himself at twelve, standing on the deck of the_ Hawk Wasp, _the salt-beaten wood coarse under his feet._

“What did you _put_ in here?” Kurapika says, bowl in hand and a vague greenness in his cheeks that has nothing to do with the rocking of the ship.

“Uhhh… cilantro? Why?”

“Oh,” Kurapika grumbles. “That must be why it tastes like soap, then.”

_A hard lump in his throat._

_He swallows it down, swallows that down and his boyish, distant shout of_   “cilantro doesn’t taste like soap!” _with it, feeling invisible fingers clench around his heart._ Me and Leorio…. we always used to prank him after that, didn’t we? Told him that soap was a Whale Island delicacy and that we were cooking it ‘specially for _him…_

_He can still see Kurapika’s face in his mind as if it were yesterday, the way he’d clamped down on his struggling smile when their joke had been revealed…_

Focus _, he tells himself, the growing shadows of the forest shimmering through a curtain of burgeoning tears._ It’s lost now.

Just focus on the plants.

Rosemary… sage… _A cluster of bloodred flowers catches his eye._ Oooh, poppy! That’ll go good with the fennel…

_Nights race through his mind, carrying a thousand jagged memories—his glowing fist, a steady stream of blood—_

It’ll help me sleep, too.

I guess.

_He rips the poppies out of the ground, all of them, nearly crushing their seeds in his fist._

_His hands are dyed red._

It’s too early in the season for basil, isn’t it? _he thinks in some crowded corner of his mind._ Same with pepper…

I suppose that’s good, I never really liked peppers anyway…

 _“Spicyyyyy!”_ his younger self shouts, tongue flopping, cheeks red, one hand uselessly fanning his open mouth. Greedily, he reaches for his water-skin and sucks down big, heaving gulps—gulps that do nothing to ease the burn.

Across their campfire, Kite smiles dryly. “Careful. Don’t take too many big bites.” He reaches down and grabs a chunk of bread resting on a plate by the fireside, then rips off a chunk and tosses it to his struggling squire. “Here. Bread cools the heat better than water.”

The bread’s lifespan from that point is short, a deep, watery _buuuuuurrp_ its elegy. “Thanks Kite!”

Kite shifts toward the fire, one arm resting loosely across his knees. His grin broadens by centimeters. “Just don’t choke. By the way, do you like it?”

“Unh… yeah!” Gon mumbles around another cautious mouthful. “It’s really different than anything I’ve had before. Sort of burny, but underneath that there’s all these different flavors…”

Half the curry disappears, to another bout of frantic fanning. “Mrrbread—”  _gulp_ —“please?”

You said it was from someplace you went while you were searching for Ging, didn’t you? _he thinks, a sudden tightness in his chest. Through blurred eyes, he scans the forest—and in moments like_ this, _it almost seems that his mentor is_ waiting _for him—_ just _around the next tree, the next fold of the forest, the next hill or rock or stream—_

_All he has to do is keep running. Then he’ll finds him._

Then _._

_A patch of color nestled in the roots of an old oak slices past his eyes._

_White._

_And blue._

_And_ blueonwhite _—(and beneath that, a sickly gray-beige that just might be the color of flesh—)_

_The tree is in splinters before he realizes what he’s done._

***

_He stays there, by the crater he’s made, for a long time._

_Above him, the sky turns the color of a bruise._

Mushrooms _._

 _The flesh beneath the splattered blue was nothing more than_ mushrooms _, he’s noticed; mushrooms and bluebells and snowdrops, crushed together in a smear of sap and veins._

_Remnants of petals still cling to his fist._

Mushrooms _—and he can hear his aunt saying, once again,_ thank you for the soup it’s delicious _, can feel her warm arms around him, lifting him high in a dizzying patch of sunlight as laughter crinkles the corners of her eyes—_

Aunt Mito…

(what would you think of me now)

_Fat, salty droplets find the petals._

_Footsteps swishing the grass—and he looks over his shoulder to see Killua, standing just behind him, his shock of white hair bright against the dark, churning sky._

Killua _…_

_Gon opens his mouth, but no sound comes out._

_A nonchalant snort. “So, do you just up and destroy random trees for fun, or…”_

_“Was angry.” Distantly, he feels himself swallow the static-charged air. “But I’m better now,”  he adds as Killua’s face softens with unrealized horror. “Sorry, Killu…”_

_The wind whistles. Between them, dead leaves fly._

If you knew everything I’ve done… would you still come for me?

***

_I’ve misjudged you._

The two of them walk back to camp under the roiling sky, Killua stepping in Gon’s footprints through the unfamiliar forest. With invisible hands, the wind tears through the trees.

Hands that would— _could—_ destroy indiscriminately, ripping trees and livestock and humans apart in blind rage, the wails of a childish god—

_That night at the campfire… what had those people done?_

He watches Gon’s back as the other’s matted hair flies toward the sky, as the craggy muscles of his shoulders sway in time with his steps. _You really do like destroying things, don’t you?_

A low growl of thunder.

Killua doesn’t even have to look at his haunting little cat to know its lights are almost gone. _How long?_

_How long until it’s me?_

The clouds give him no response.

With a frustrated roar, the sky splits. Blinding rain falls, thick and choking, cutting off the two men from any sign of light. By the time they take shelter under the overhang, both are soaked to the bone.

Killua shivers.

Gon, he notices, pays no heed to the cold—he simply sits, arm around his knees, staring out at the curtain of rain.

Something within him _twists_ , some fragile little part of him melting at the sight. _You sure spend a lot of time just staring at nothing, don’t you?_

_I guess you got nothing better to do._

“Did you get the smoking spices in between your busy schedule of punching trees?” Killua snipes, his voice coarse and low, bouncing harshly off the stone walls.

A nod, and Gon’s shoulders sink lower.

“ _A_ _we_ -some. Got any meat to go with it? Or are we just going to eat shreds of leaves today?”

A flattened voice. “No. But we can’t go out right now. Nothing will be out.”

Silence falls, broken only by the steady, oppressive drumming of the rain.

Gon turns to face outside.

***

“I scared you.”

Three words, reaching past through the crawl of minutes, stark against the silence.

The rain muffles them now, seeming to swallow up any words Killua might say.

His eyes trace the line of Gon’s shoulders, the rippling swell of muscles under sunbaked skin—and Killua thinks of the way the light-starved moths at Kukuro Castle would throw themselves into candles, scaly wings turning to ash as they twitched, in pain or ecstasy or _both—_

“Yeah. You did.”

***

Will it _always_ be like this?

_If he concentrates, Gon thinks he can feel Killua’s breath on his back, whisper-soft and guarded. Hesitant._

Will I always be driving him away?

 _He looks down at his body, legs like tree trunks melding into a torso weighed down with boulderlike muscles, the sort that would take an ordinary man_ decades _to achieve. He remembers the first few weeks—_ months, _really; remembers the way he’d always tripped when he stood up, misjudging the distance between him and the ground, the knack his head had had for finding low-hanging trees, the shock of reaching for something,_ anything _, only to realize his right arm ended just below his shoulder in shreds of livid raw meat—_

_Remembers kneeling by a freshly dug hole, the patched-together body of a tall, thin man with long silver hair lying crumpled beside him as his ghostly arm burned._

_Some men would want this body, he knows._

_Not him._

_Killua is behind him, tucked safely away from the storm, he knows—and if he brings_ Gyo _to his ears, he can—_ almost— _sense the steady throb of the other man’s heart._

_There is a wall between them now, a rift forming that these fluttery, strange feelings of his can’t quite reach._

Killua, just don’t hate me. I couldn’t stand it…

***

The storm does not break that afternoon.

The rain comes, sometimes trailing off to a drizzle but most often falling in bladelike sheets. Outside, the wind shrieks. Lightning cuts the black sky—and thunder crashes violently against Killua’s ears, then tapers off to a long low rumble, as if the sky itself sobbed.

Thunder—and below it, a soft whimper of pain.

Killua turns to look at Gon, slumped by the entrance in the half-light—and sucks in a breath, pupils blown. Gon has twisted to face him, though his head is bowed. His legs pool, forgotten, beneath him, though every muscle in his torso is drawn to the point of snapping. His hand clutches the stump of his right arm, gripping it hard enough to bruise, knuckles bleached with tension—

His breathing reaches a fever pitch—and, here and there, a soft, broken whimper reaches Killua’s ears.

 _Gon,_ he breathes—and before he knows it, he’s _there._

He’s kneeling beside Gon on the gravel, one hand on the other man’s trembling wrist, the other reaching out to gently pull up his chin, heedless of Illumi’s soft _you did this to him, it was you, it was you it was_ you scouring through his mind -

Though his skin is cold, Gon is slick with sweat.

“Gon, are you okay? Are you hurt? Tell me—”

“I-I’m okay, Killua,” Gon says through gritted teeth. “It’s just—my arm kinda hurts a bit, even though it isn’t— _aaaaggghh—”_

He folds in on himself, biting his lip so hard it bleeds.

“Gon—” _it’s_ you, you’re _doing this to him,_ you’re _hurting him… we love you..._ “I’m here.”

His fingers are still on the other man’s chin.

Killua swallows hard. “I promise.”

“I’m _fine—”_

 _“And_ a terrible liar, evidently,” Killua says lightly. “Now. What can I do?”

— _you did this of_ course _you did you’re a killer you were_ made _to hurt—_

 _No,_ he screams inside his own mind.

_I’m not._

This time, his fingers do not move.

“Just—stay,” Gon mutters, voice choked with pain.

Killua nods.

And does exactly that.

***

_In his mind, Killua is six years old, six years old and looking down at a tall, massive man who’s choking on his own blood._

_His fingertips are wet._

_“Mom, Dad… did I do it right?”_

Killua breathes, shaky and hollow and listless. _I didn’t hurt him._

The back of his throat burns.

He studies his hands, feeling his heartbeat outline where he’s touched Gon, tracing the contours as if to memorize it, _hold_ it curled within his heart for as long as he can -

_I didn’t hurt him._

Gon is asleep now, his soft snores filling the cave to the steady drumrolls of thunder. The slimy knots of his hair nearly reach Killua’s lap.

_He’s still here._

_I didn’t hurt him._

_I didn’t hurt him I didn’t I_ didn’t—

Gon’s eyelashes flutter as he dreams, like so many small feathers—and Killua feels a soft smile touch his lips. _Thank you, Gon._

_For showing me this much, at least._

Killua’s tempted eyes trace Gon’s hard lines—the elegant sweep of his collarbone, graceful and rugged all in one; the firmness of his arm, his stomach—and the little trail of dark hairs that gather below his navel, growing thicker and coarser as they led downwards…

_Why am I looking at him like this?_

His giant is a storm of contradictions, he’s realized; cheerful and bloodthirsty all at once, sunlit smiles and a pupilless glare and a temper that would level trees for no reason at all.

A person who would stand at a tree until the bottom of the night, _just_ so Killua wouldn’t be alone.

Who’d walk up to their fire with human blood drying on his fist.

A monster and a boy all in one, who’d had his future ripped away like dust on the wind.

He blinks, and looks away.

And thinks of moths.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for, like, not updating in forever, but I hope this makes up for it :)
> 
> And I really will be updating more regularly from now on, believe me!

_ When he wakes, the light outside is golden and the shadows are long, and Killua is  _ there _ , sitting on his heels, proud and beautiful in the rain-soaked light. _

_ Killua. _

_ The star man, who’d seen the gore on his fist, who’d seen the memories bleed out, leaving nothing but splinters in their wake— _

_ Who’d given him back his words, who’d lit up the night; who’d  _ reached, _ his voice and eyes and fingers through the constant mind-numbing haze of pain. _

_ “It’s stopped raining,” Gon says. _

_ Killua gives him the look you’d give a child who has just discovered simple math. _

_ “It’s pretty.” _

_ A shrug. _

_ “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you.” _

_ No hint of a question. _

_ A hard lump grows in his throat, only to be swallowed as quickly as it materializes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” _

_ Killua doesn’t look at him. _

_ “Honestly. I never meant to hurt  _ anyone _.” _

_ Killua’s aura softens—but the fangs are still in his words as he says, “Then I guess you’re doing a pretty bad job of it.” _

Killua’s eyes on his bloodied fist—

_ Gon winces. _

_ “Sorry. That was harsh of me. I shouldn’t’ve said that.” _

_ He still won’t look at Gon. _

_ A whisper—or less than a whisper. “You’re right.” _

_ Gon’s voice is thick as he says, “I do hurt people.” _

_ Killua’s eyes soften, something— _ understanding?— _ blossoming within their depths. “Guess we better get going,” he says, voice breath, as he casts his gaze to the sky outside. He stands, brushing himself off. “Come on. The rain’s stopped.” _

_ Gon yawns, stretches, then bounds to his feet and outside the cave. _

_ The first thing he notices is the air. _

_ Fresh and sweet and cool, it caresses his face on tendrils of a leftover breeze. The mountainous clouds have receded, painting the eastern sky a deep slate-blue. Crenelated towers billow out above, fluffy and golden-white in the sun.  _

_ In the distance, thunder rolls. _

_ The languid sun dyes the world a deep, smoky gold, as if the air itself has been dusted with bronze. A rainbow hangs full and bright where the light hits the storm. _

_ “Look, Killua!” _

_ Killua opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. “It’s lovely,” he says at last, ducking his head. “Really nice.” _

_ Without another word, the two of them set off into the forest—only to come to a stop just as soon. Swollen by the storm, the stream they would have crossed has burst its banks, its water a rich muddy brown that froths into white on the tips of the waves. An unfortunate pine tree shoots downstream. _

_ “Doesn’t look like we’ll be going anywhere for a while,” he hears Killua remark as they sit. _

_ In the trees, birds gossip. _

_ “So, tell me about your aunt.” _

_ Gon starts, turning to look at Killua. The other man sits high on the grassy bank, behind him and to the right, resting on the heels of his hands as his legs stretch out in front of him, toes swaying idly.  _

_ “Huh?” _

_ “Your aunt. One of your parents’ sisters. The one who smoked the meat in that oh-so-specific way you told me about. That sound familiar?” _

_ “Oh! Right!” Something melts within Gon at that, long-held words gushing out the crack. “She’s really kind—whenever I was younger and got hurt, she’d always patch me up, and whenever I had a problem, she’d always listen no  _ matter  _ how busy she was. But she wasn’t  _ too  _ nice—whenever I did something  _ really _ bad, she’d let me know.” His eyes grow misty. “She was a really good cook, too—I remember I’d come home from a night out there with the sheep and she’d  _ already _ have breakfast for me before I went to bed, and it was always the  _ best _ breakfast we had money for! We didn’t have much, but on times when I was working late—”  _ sniff— _ “or it was a special occasion, like one of Grandma Abe’s holidays or my birthday—” _

How old would I be right now? Six... seven… eighteen?

_ He inches closer to Killua as if to shelter from reality. “Good with boats, too. And water. We grew up close to the ocean, so I guess it made sense, but… She was the one who taught me how to swim, did you know that?”  _ Of course you didn’t I’m just rambling—“ _ That was like the  _ only  _ time she ever listened to Grandma Abe’s old traditions. Usually she just tried to forget all the island stuff. But Grandma said that it was always best in the old days that children learned to swim before they could walk, and so I did. Swim before I walked, I mean.”  _ Five years—I’ve lost five _ years - _

_ “Why?” _

_ “Tradition. Where I come from. Old gods that aren’t worshipped much anymore.” His eyes are shimmering, threatening to breach their banks. “It’s s’posed to make children do the right thing in life, y’know? Keep them noble.” A messy snort, and he wipes his nose on the back of his hand  to Killua’s look of disgust. “But I guess… it didn’t really work all that well for me, huh…” _

_ Killua’s fist clenches around the grass. “Then maybe _ I _ should’ve been taught to swim a bit earlier. Anyway, your aunt sounds amazing. Don’t keep telling me about your relatives. I’ll get jealous.” _

_ Something bubbles up inside of him, something light and feathery and bouncy, and he feels a smile tug his cheeks. “Then they can just adopt you. Problem solved!” _

_ A stray raindrop glistens on Killua’s cheek. He blinks several times, then gathers himself—closes his jaw, clears his throat, and stands. “We should get going,” he mutters, his gaze flying to the horizon. “Unless you like starving.” _

_ With that, his star man is gone. _

_ “Come on. There might be somewhere upstream we can safely cross.” _

_ “Oh. Right!” Gon stands and scrambles up the bank after him, heedless of his mud- and grass- stained knees. He lets the forest swallow the two of them, safely tucking them within sun-dappled leaves. The branches whisper and the birds sing, and the air flows sweet and cool across their skin.  _

_ He watches the leaves dapple Killua’s jawline, moving across his profile in a study of light and shadow, gold and blue. His eyes trace the curve of his throat, the rain glistening on alabaster skin, the dip of his collarbone half obscured by clothes. _

_ Gon’s never been real big on clothes. _

_ Killua is graceful as ever as he follows the stream; graceful and supple like liquid silver, like a jungle cat, like lightning itself—and Gon remembers the way his eyes shone in the campfire that night… _

_ The way those same eyes had turned dark at the word  _ relatives,  _ at the mention of his _ hatsu. And you could never understand half the things I’ve been through—

_ “Killua?” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ Gon feels a smile split his unpracticed cheeks. “Race ya.” _

***

The two of them race through the forest in a blur—Killua’s light over abandoned logs, Gon crashing behind him like a charging bull, like thunder—and the trail of laughter they leave behind nearly reaches the stars.

And, Killua thinks, if he tries hard enough, the memories will be left behind.

***

Their hunting trip brings them a deer, beaten with Gon’s  _ hatsu  _ into an unrecognizable twist of gore.

Killua shivers. “You should have let me kill it.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s dead anyway now.”

Gon bites his lip, as if ashamed.

Overhead, the sun sinks, its light the color of blood.

***

_ “Killua?” _

_ Gon’s voice, though quiet, rings out all the same against the stillness of the dusk. _

_ “Hn?” _

_ The two of them lie on the gravel outside of Gon’s cave, stomachs full, muscles sore from their run. Beside them, Killua’s fire crackles in its makeshift hearth.  _

_ The sunset fades, turning the western horizon to brass and shadow—and above their heads, the glittering pinpoints of the first stars appear. _

_ “I was just thinking…” The sound of his own voice saying something that isn’t  _ first comes rock _ still has not ceased to jolt him— _

_ He turns to look at Killua and Killua does the same, cloudlike hair shifting with the movement. The blue of his eyes catches the flames like sunlight on water, like the sky at dawn. _

_ Gon’s breath echoes in his ears. Killua is from an entirely different world than even the one he’s left behind, he knows—a shooting star in human form, a streak of lightning come to earth.  _

_ Beautiful and refined and everything that Gon is not. _

_ “You were right.”  _

_ “About what.” _

_ “I should’ve let you kill the deer.” _

_ The deer is now gone, its only trace an eating contest and then a good deal of burping. And laughter— _ his  _ laughter, echoing about the cave. _

_ He’d forgotten how much his stomach, his cheeks would ache. _

_ Killua turns his gaze to their sky of stone, lightly chewing his lip. “Hey, Gon.” _

_ “Hm?” _

_ “When you challenged me to a race… were you doing that to make me feel better? About my  _ hatsu, _ I mean.” _

_ Gon giggles. “…Maybe?” _

_ A bemused snort. “And people say Enhancers aren’t manipulative.” _

_ “Well,” Killua says, sitting up and shaking gravel from his hair, “we’ve got to find a village. We need food. And clothes. And soap—you stink. And something to smoke the—” _

_ Something drops within the pit of his stomach, something hard and cold.. “A—a  _ village?”

_ Killua smiles dryly and flings a tiny pebble—or a very large piece of sand—at him.  _ “Yes,  _ a village. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. People live there. Quite a popular concept, really.” _

A village…

_ (Blood on his fist and blood on the  _ grass _ and the distant harsh voices begging  _ you can't do this  _ and  _ please stop please spare them please please PLEASE— _ and all he sees is a figure crouched beside the girl she’s flayed, wings like shattered glass flickering at the sharp  _ crack  _ of bone. _

you’re lying you’re lying you’re LYING—

_ He’d watched, the next day, as the townspeople that were left buried their dead.) _

_ “I can’t go back.” _

_ Rocks have crumbled in his useless fist. _

_ He sits up. He feels sick. “Never—I  _ can’t—”

_ The look on Killua’s face is the one he’d worn by the splintered tree. “...Right. I take it you wouldn't be a very welcome guest.” _

Why are you staying why won’t you  _ go— _

_ “Here’s what we’ll do.” Killua’s eyes are dark again, the way the sky had looked before the storm, and Gon wants to  _ reach _ , reach out and smooth away the furrowed lines of his brow...  _

_ “You’ll come with me to the village, but you’ll stay outside.  _ You won’t come in.  _ I’ll bargain, or... something, I guess, for the stuff we need. Then we’ll go back. Got it?” _

A village…

_ A village red with blood—and he’s twelve again, twelve again and looking out at houses crumpled to ash. _

Through the dust and grime, he can see bleached white bones.

He watches Kurapika’s back  with a smile as the older boy steps out, dirt lining his reddened hands. “That is the last of them, it looks like. Thank you, Gon.”

“It’s no problem!” The cheerful lilt to his voice hangs, formless, in the silence. “I’m glad we got here, anyways.”

The wind rustles scarlet leaves.

“I’m really sorry, you know.” The words tumble over themselves in a rush. “A-About what happened to your family, I mean. And your people. And, um...”

Kurapika’s stony gray eyes find him, though not with anger in their gaze.

“I just really, really,  _ really _ wanted to say I’m sorry.” The wind is hollow in his ears. “I  _ know _ it won’t help anything or bring your family back or—”

Kurapika whispers,  _ Ssshh— _ and then slowly, catching Gon’s eyes, he brings his two fingers to his lips.

And exhales, the breath fluttering between his fingertips. He then folds his wrist back, so that his open palm faces the sky. 

The Kurta getsure of remembrance. Of gratitude.

Gon burst into an earsplitting grin. “Thanks, Pika!”

_ A village in red as his fist found flesh—and he can hear his voice, childish and high as his arm slams against wood— _ then why don’t you save some of that sympathy for the people you’ve killed…

_ Something hot and wet finds his cheeks. _

_ “Gon…” The look in Killua’s eyes is the look Kite— _ Kite— _ had given to the wounded mother foxbear, pity and wariness all in one. _

_ “Don’t leave…” _

_ “I never said I was  _ going _ to, you dumbass. At least not longer than a night.” He stands up, steps out from under the overhang, and whistles. A sleek dark shape bounds out of the night—a warhorse, glossy and black and nearly reaching Gon’s chin at the ears. Killua reaches in what’s left of his pack, takes out a battered square of parchment, unfolds it and stands there studying, his right hand crackling with lightning as he traces the route. “Huh, so if we… wait, no, that won’t work… how about…  _ damn  _ stupid map.” _

_ “Okay, we’re going back the way I came. It’s the only village I know; and besides, it seemed like the largest in the vicinity, so there’s a plus. Hopefully Shoot and Knuckle won’t be  _ too  _ mad…” _

_ “Shoot and Knuckle? You know them?” _

_ “Not well. And we didn’t part on the best of terms,” Killua comments dryly. “Why? Do you?” _

_ “Um…” He remembers the swarming feeling in his gut as he’d scrabbled uselessly for his absent aura; remember’s Knuckle’s voice— _ it looks like Kite is under control of the enemy, we'll have to be careful about saving him—

Sniff.  _ “Yeah.” _

_ Killua frowns, his eyes going soft, though he still doesn't reach out towards Gon. “Bad memories?” _

_ Gon nods. _

_ “Do you… do you want to talk or anything…” _

_ He shakes his head. _

_ Killua starts to his horse. Gon moves to follow, but the black mare fidgets, forelegs threatening to rise into a rear. _

You don’t like me any more than the foxbears, huh?

_ Even with the campfire’s glow, his world is still dark. _

_ His feet make the gravel clack as he walks back inside, hair trailing like a dead thing. _

_ Killua’s aura vanishes. _

_ *** _

As it turns out, Killua’s navigation skills have  _ not _ improved during the days he spent with the giant.

He starts out with a plan childlike in its simplicity: retrace his steps. 

The problem is that he  _ has _ no steps to retrace. 

His path, as far as he can remember it, looks something like  _ this:  _ a straight line from the village to the trail Palm had pointed him too, then a tangle of spaghettilike lines where Gon had chased him through the treetops,  _ then _ —

_ What am I supposed to do, go back and find my own bloodstains on the leaves? And after all this rain… _

_ Fuck. _

_ I’m never getting out of here, am I. _

There are other villages printed on the map—but the forest around them looms in an unbroken wall of  _ green,  _ each bud equally featureless, each rock and hill and stream the blank wall of a maze.

Squall nickers.

From her saddle, Killua reaches forward, taking one hand off the reins to pat her on the neck. “You got any ideas, girl?”

She whinnies a wordless  _ No. _

“Well… in that case…” he whips around in the saddle, an idea striking his nerves.  _ Gon. _

Gon is following him, he knows; he can‘t feel him  _ exactly,  _ but Gon wears the forest like a second skin. He would be able to track Killua, even without aura.

And Gon  _ would  _ track him, he knows; Gon, bright and tempestuous with all the loyalty of a hound. 

_ And you chose someone like  _ me…

“Gon?”

A rustle in the leaves—and a large, broad-shouldered man pops out of the undergrowth, shaking leaves from his endless swirl of hair.

Killua’s still not sure how someone so  _ large  _ can hide so well.

“...Where are the villages around here? Do you know?”

“Um…” Gon’s gaze clouds. He studies his feet.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find them on my own.” Killua jerks the reins. 

“No, wait, I’ll take you there.” Gon’s smile is stretched, clenched. “Follow me.”

A  _ swish  _ of branches—and with that, he is gone.

“Hey, Killua? You up for another race?”

_ Really, Kil? Wasting aura on something as trivial as that? _

Somewhere in his mind, the scent of burning flesh rises—to fight a silent battle against the rush of bubbles that had welled up inside him as he and Gon shot through the forest together, feet skidding on a carpet of raindrops, the wind playing in his hair-

_ I thought we had raised you better than that. What if we were to be attacked? _

Killua slides off Squall—and grins, full and bright. “You're on.”

***

By the time they reach the village, Killua's thighs burn, and sweat glistens on his forehead.

“Aww,  _ c’mon!” _

He looks up from where he rests, hands on knees, to see Gon crashing through the undergrowth in an undignified, skidding stop. “Still…”  _ pant— _ “can't—beat you…”

“I bet.” Killua feels a smirk tease his face as he looks up at Gon. “I don't think you're catching me anytime soon.”

_ I don't think you've had the training I've had. _

He remembers Gon's voice— _ whenever I was younger and got hurt, she’d pick me up, when I had a problem, she’d always listen… _

His eyes well up.

“Killua?”

“Unh?”

“Are you okay? You look sorta sad.”

He swallows down the hard, wet lump in his throat. “I’m fine.”

The sound of hooves, and Squall bounds out of the undergrowth, flanks shining as she breathes. Ears pricked, she hurries over to her master, positioning herself between him—and Gon.

Who shrinks back, blinking away unshed tears, hand squeezing nothing.

_ Oh. _

Killua reaches out to pat his horse at the base of her mane. “Nothing to be afraid of, dummy. It’s just Gon.”

Judging by the way Squall shrinks back, ears twitching, eyes wide, one foreleg pawing at the leaves,  _ just Gon  _ offers no comfort. 

Gon steps back and studies his feet.

Killua’s gaze shifts between them. “Um. Gon. Try relaxing your aura a bit and see if that helps her.”

“M’sorry…”

“No reason to be. Just… I don’t know. Think about flowers or some shit.”

“O-okay.” His shoulders shake as he exhales in a long, drawn-out  _ whoosh— _ then again as he inhales, the breath rattling the air. Killua keeps one hand on Squall’s reins.

Who snorts, tossing her head.

_ I mean,  _ Killua thinks, memories of firelight-bright blood and shattered wood wrenching his gut,  _ it’s hard to blame you. _

Something rustles the bushes as it scampers away.

The distant caw of a crow.

When Gon speaks again, his voice is small. Hollow. “I’m sorry, um…” He looks toward Killua, a hint of the life back in his eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Squall.”

“Okay, then.” He swallows—and extends his hand for her to sniff. “Squall, I'm sorry. For—for having such a scary aura and all. Someone… Someone once said that it’s good to be kind to animals, and…” His shoulders shake. “H-He’s gone. He isn’t coming back.” Gon exhales, soft and broken and slow. “But even so, I—I still want to follow his words. I’ve made a lot of good animal friends that way…” He smiles, though his eyes are still damp. “Miki and Laila and Kon… Kon was my best friend before I left Whale Island, did you know? I saved him when he was just a pup. You’d like him, Squall…” A slight hint of a giggle escapes his lips as his hand finds the nape of his neck. “Um, actually, maybe you  _ wouldn’t _ like him so much, him being a foxbear and all, and I know they can be kinda scary at times. But trust me, he was the sweetest, gentlest foxbear I’ve ever seen, and…” The droplets at the corners of his eyes are bigger now. “I… I always thought I'd see him again…”

They spill, trickling down his cheeks in two silent streams.

Squall’s ears are still flat.

_ Gon… _

Something inside him  _ crumples _ at the sight, Killua’s breath snagging in his chest as his eyes well up. At his side, his fingers—his  _ useless _ fingers—clench around nothing.

_ The you from before… he must've been kind, wasn't he? Open-hearted. _

Distantly, he remembers Gon's voice, just a few days prior:  _ it was like I was alive again. The way I used to be… _

_ You  _ are  _ alive,  _ he thinks, in some hidden, desperate corner of his heart.  _ You're one of the most alive people I've ever met. _

His fingers are shaking as they reach. 

Breathlessly, as if he might shatter this moment like glass, he runs a fingertip, feather-light, down Gon's clenched knuckles. 

_ Warmth— _ Gon’s hand is warm and rough and sweaty from running; and, in that moment the world seems to sway, Gon's face overlapping with a tiny gray puppy, jumping on him, its tail wiggling at twice the speed of light—

For a second, Killua's stomach climbs in his throat—but then he steadies himself, takes a deep breath, looks into Gon's eyes.

This isn’t Wolf.

He just has to believe that.

They’re rather nice eyes, all things considered; they shine a soft, warm brown, dipping into gold where the light hits them. The color of amber, of brandy, of a hearth on a snowbound winter night; of the apple pies he and… Kalluto would sneak from the kitchen late into the night. The color of cider and soft piles of warm furs and Killua thinks he never knew this much  _ beauty _ could be contained in any one thing...

Killua’s hand still remains, trailing lightly along the bones of Gon’s hand—and just as he moves to pull away, he feels thick, meaty fingers caress his own.

Killua squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the pain of snapped bones.

A pain that doesn’t come.

He feels nothing more than a gentle warm squeeze.

_ Is this real?  _ Gon’s thumb traces, devotedly, the ridges on the knuckles, the lines of his palm, before turning back and running one finger across Killua’s fingertips. When he opens his eyes, Gon’s are locked against his own, soft with wonder.

“Sharp,” he breathes.

“Yeah.”

Gon looks down at their fingers—at their threadlike bond. “They’re pretty, though. Soft.” 

And with that, he knits their hands together. 

Gon’s hand is callused, cracked, the nails ragged and mud-caked; worlds away from the icy smoothness of Killua’s own.

Inches away from the breathless flutter of Killua’s pulse. 

_ Is this—is this really happening to someone like me? _

_ Gon’s  _ pulse too, beating deep and strong through those rough fingers—and Killua’s heart sings as he realizes that this is one heartbeat he won't ever have to take away. Gon pulls Killua close; so close that this moment has its own weight, the air between them alive and breathing—

So close that Gon’s breath rests on Killua’s lips.

Neither of them move as the wind rustles leaves, brushing dark, limp strands of hair down into Gon’s face.

Hesitantly, carefully, Killua reaches up and tucks those strands behind Gon’s ears. “Your breath smells terrible, you know.” 

Gon pouts. “You’re not very sweet, you know.”

Illumi’s voice, coiling in the back of his skull.  _ Destroy him—it’s what you’re meant to do _ —

Killua swallows hard.  _ No. It’s not. _

_ Your hands weren't made for this. _

Killua’s gaze falls. “We better get going.”

Unable to find Gon’s eyes, he shifts his weight, stepping towards Squall—

Only to be met with a gentle tug on his hand.

Gon.

Gon is still there, looking at him with those brimming firelight eyes.

_ Sharp. _

_ But pretty. _

_ You think I’m something beautiful. _

His hand is warm and gentle on Killua’s.

And maybe they’re both instruments of destruction.

But for now, at least, they have each other.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the fluff last chapter :)

“I should get going,” Killua says, and the moment releases.

Suddenly, the air tastes normal again.

He walks over to Squall, still patiently standing there, watching her master and his giant with softly alert ears. “The village is right down the base of this hill. I’ll get everything we need, then come back soon. Okay?”

“...Okay,” Gon agrees, his voice falling. He sits down heavily on a rock, worrying a fallen leaf between his fingers.

“Keep—keep an eye on Squall for me, ‘Kay?”

“...‘Kay.”

“I’ll be back.”

Gon doesn't look convinced.  

“I promise.”

And with that, he steps out of the forest and down towards the town, watching neat rows of white-framed houses spreading out below him like lilies. Puffs of smoke rise from their thatched roofs.

He doesn’t look back.

The tall grass swishes around his feet as he walks,; green seed heads bobbing in time with his steps. Beneath his feet, the sharp slope of the hill is jagged with rocks; craggy granite boulders half-hidden in grass that form a rough unfinished staircase, without human hands.

He reaches the bottom of the hill with languid, rolling steps that slow to a halt—and walks into the town. The ground between the houses is worn into a dusty floor, pale and cracked and grassless. Between the houses, chickens scurry, children play.

The sounds of life reach his ears—children squabbling, a baby crying. Somewhere, a wife argues with her husband. The snort of a pig, the happy barks of a pup. When he breathes in, he smells smoke, meat, manure, sweat.

_ it’s a bit dirty, but… _

_ Is this the world I was missing? _

Pushing aside the tug at his heart, Killua squares his shoulders, walks up to the nearest house,  and raps on the door.

The sound of thumping inside—and the door opens to reveal a young woman, loose, honey-colored hair falling around her shoulders. Her face brightens at the sight of him, lips stretching into a smile as one hand nervously tugs her bodice downwards. “Oh! Um. What can I do for you, kind sir?”

Around her, her aura knots.

_ This isn’t entirely genuine. She’s hiding something.  _ Killua places his weight on one leg and leans against the doorframe, weight resting on one upthrown arm. He smiles coolly down at her as he says, “I’m looking for an inn owned by Knuckle Bine and Shoot McMahon. Do you have any idea of where that would be?”

“Ah, well…” Beneath her fluttering eyelashes, her eyes dart like flies in cupped hands. “that wouldn’t be here; that'd be down in Hofwe, about eighteen leagues to the northwest or so.” Her brow crinkles. “Or would that be nineteen? I can’t remember…”

_ Shit.  _ Inwardly, Killua grimaces.  _ Gon, you have the same sense of direction that I do, huh?  _ “In that case,” he says, and one would be forgiven for expecting Killua’s priorities to be  _ food  _  or  _ medical supplies— _

“Do you know any place where I can buy clothes?”

***

The young woman—who introduces herself as Arica—takes him down a winding trail that retreats into the recesses of the forest, making—or  _ attempting _ to make, at any rate—small talk all the while.

“So, um, you're Killua, right?” Hands clasped at the small of her back, she leans toward him even as she scampers ahead. “That's a really pretty name. Like music.”

“Huh.”

“I've always liked pretty things. I wanted to be a lace-maker once, did you know? But I didn't really have the talent for it...”

Overhead, a thrush chirps.

“You have to study to do that kind of thing, you know. And it takes a  _ lot  _ of time and money to get that sort of training, even if I  _ had  _ had the talent.”

_ So not a Conjurer, then.  _ Killua side _ - _ eyes Arica as her steps pause, waiting for him. Her  _ Ten  _ is prodigious, he knows that much—prodigious and oddly smooth, with the exception of the first few seconds they'd met.  _ Talented, but lowborn—or are you from somewhere else? You don't talk the way Knuckle and Shoot did… _

“Anyway, you'll really like this guy,” she says, her voice breathy as the rutted trail climbs. “He’s a really talented Conjurer, you know? Once you meet the conditions, all you have to do is tell him what you want and he’ll create it for you. Just like that.” A slight hint of a frown tugs at her lower lip. “Oh, but he’s bad with jewelry, so if you want something shiny or beaded…”

_ Shit,  _ Killua thinks, as he watches his visions of striding through the Mitene Woods clad in gold-damasked surcoat with jeweled cuffs, Gon’s eyes sparkling with an unsaid  _ wow, Killua!,  _ vanish like so much dust on the wind. “How bad are we talking, exactly?”

“Oh, he can do pretty much anything as long as the conditions are met.” With a catlike grin, she disappears around a bend in the trail. “Come on, it’s not  _ that  _ much farther.”

Killua rounds the bend—to  find a low, squat cottage nestled in a fold of the hill between two great boulders, its vine-laced gray stone nearly blending in. Shadowed pines cast a pall over the clearing, unbroken by the low babbling stream that runs through it. In the window, a candle flickers.

“Aww, he’s not as scary as he looks,” Arica chirps. “Go ahead, knock.”

The door is round, he notices—round, and only up to his chest.

_ I’ve never seen a round door before. _

Aura caught, Killua steps up to the door—and knocks.

It swings open to reveal a little, wizened old man, sitting in a knobbled wooden chair with wheels, a blanket across his lap. “Well,” he grunts, looking up at Killua, “aren't you fancy. Come for some clothes, I reckon?”

Killua ducks, and enters the man’s home. It’s homier inside than it looks from outside—a fire crackles in the hearth, the scent of soup rising from its pot. The dull stone walls have been carefully softened, he notes; they sport a generous lining of oak carvings, skins—and tapestries.

_ So _ many tapestries, each an incredibly vivid jumble of colors—vermillion, mustard yellow, aqua, grape, and fever-phlegm green all mixing together in a pointless swirl, as if some small blind child had decided to paint.

Killua’s starting to have some serious doubts on this man's dependency as a tailor.

“So,” he grunts, rolling his chair over to a long, low table and taking out a pipe, then lighting it, “what’re ya looking for today, son?”

Killua straightens—then gives a muffled  _ fuck  _ as his head collides with the rafters. Having learned that it’s wiser to duck, he tries his meager best at looking commanding while hunched over like a penguin. “I’ll need several complete outfits—for myself and for one other man.”

“Ah.” A knowing smile stretches across the tailor’s lips. “A gift for your special someone, perhaps?”

_ “What—no— _ I—he’s not—” Killua splutters, his face the color of sunsets. “We're just friends, anyway—and I’m fairly certain that he prefers women, actually, most men do…”  _ Gon’s hand caressing his own…  _ “a-and anyway, even if he  _ did _ prefer men, there's no reason  _ why _ he'd—I mean,  _ we’re just friends…” _

Killua shakes his head, feeling  _ something _ come loose and rattle around his skull. “And anyway, he’s been away from other people. For a very long time.” Clearing his throat, he forces out, “So, it wouldn't even be  _ proper _ for us to be lovers—that is, if we  _ wanted _ to be. Which we don't. So yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

A raised eyebrow.

“I’m  _ serious!” _

_ “Anyway,”   _ the clothesmaker says with a loud cough, “what, exactly, do you need?”

“As I said, I'll need several sets of outfits, both for him and myself. Preferably fine, as fine as you can manage.” 

“Fine, huh? Whaddya meaning by ‘fine’?”

“Well, I’ve knowledge that burnout velvet is  _ very _ much in fashion in the Kakin court,” Killua says, grinning slyly. “Yet, I’ve heard that painted silk is quite in fashion in Yorknew at the moment…” He taps his finger to his chin in a show of mock puzzlement. “Hmm, which to choose, which to choose...”

He’s rewarded with a low whistle as the other man’s eyes go wide.

“And I must say, if you’re planning on embossing any of my order with precious metals, I’ve always preferred silver over gold, it works far better with my coloration.” _ Better at carrying lightning, too. _ “And if you are to do any lace patterns, do not make the lace  _ too _ delicate—or pair it with a stronger element. A touch is alright, but think refined, yet still masculine.”

“Brion’s  _ bones _ , son,” the tailor mutters, staring wide-eyed at Killua, “if ya got the goods to  _ pay _ for all of that, I’ll be livin’ like a king. And for your, ahem, friend?”

“Ah, for him…” Killua’s brow furrows.  _ What would Gon want? _

His first reaction is to say  _ the same thing, but bigger— _ but as he mentally scans his memories of Gon, he realizes t _ hat’s not what he would want, of course it isn’t— _

“He’d...  I think he'd want something simple,” Killua says, the words soft and gentle and slow. “Easy. Clothes he could put on with one hand, so no complicated buttons or clasps. Nothing too scratchy or clinging, I have a feeling too much unfamiliar fabric would irritate him.” He purses his lips together, remembering the feeling of Gon’s hand hauling him onto the rock. “He tends to run fairly warm—we both need winter clothes, but make his lighter than mine… actually, come to think of it, I really don't know how warm he’d be during the winter, we haven’t been together very long…”

Heedless of the clothesmaker’s subtle smile, Killua continues, “For colors, I was thinking primarily earth tones. Lots of greens and browns—copper, bronze. And gold—that would bring out his eyes.” He feels a smile alight on his cheeks. “Cream, too. Nothing too harsh like white or black. He’s the forest, not the sky,” Killua breathes, feeling his grin spread, light and bubbly and warm _. _ “His shoulders are his best feature, that and his collarbone, so make sure to cut his shirts to flatter them— Oh, and, you’re Conjuring the clothes, right?”

“Aye.”

“Well, in that case, you don’t have to make a right sleeve—or just make a little bit of one, anyway. Close it off a little above the elbow. I know it’s not what you're used to, but I can pay handsomely—”

_ Actually, wait, no I can't. _

_ I’m not the Zoldyck heir anymore. _

_ Do my parents think I’m dead? Does Illumi? _

He feels some invisible weight cut free from his heart. “He’ll need underclothes, too, and shoes, and a cloak—”

“You’re devoted.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Anyway, that’s quite the order you have there,” the other man says with a soft cluck of his tongue. “Here, lemme take your measurements, son, and then we’ll talk payment.”

Killua complies, stripping to the waist as the other man counts off on his tape measure. “Hmm… on the tall side, I see. That’ll cost ya extra.” Killua winces slightly. “And your friend’s…?”

KIllua thinks back to earlier that day, Gon standing in front of Squall as tears rolled down his cheeks...

He breathes in the suddenly-thick air.  _ Concentrate on their heights. _ At full stretch, he remembers, Squall’s head had fit just under Gon’s nose.

_ So if she’s seventeen hands at the withers… and I would guess another couple of feet for her neck... _

Killua gulps. “I don’t know. Big.”

The man’s brow crinkles. “Well, whaddya got for payment?”

Killua strides over to the dining-table, then empties what’s left of his bag onto it. A sharp clatter of bouncing coins. “There.”

“Hmm, five, ten fifteen twenty… nearly eighty jenny. That’ll be more than enough.”

_ “Awe—” _

“If you were to request a set of  _ basic _ outfits for you and your friend. As it is, though, you’ll have to give up on the painted silk and silver velvet and whatnot.”

Distinctly, Killua feels the blood drain from his face. 

“...Can you  _ at least  _ give me something to accessorize with?”

***

An hour later, he stands with an armful of clothes in his arms.

And a dusty blue hat.

That had been the  _ something to accessorize with _ part of the request.

_ Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. _

He dresses, every cell in his body singing  _ clean clothes! clean clothes!,  _ and turns and starts back down the trail—but not before putting on the hat. It’s an okay hat, he assumes, in the absence of a mirror. 

(His hair is getting longer, he notices.

He wonders if he looks like his father now.)

***

The local baker’s shop is on the opposite fringes of the village, right beneath one of the dappled green hills that surround them—yet Killua’s bread-starved stomach lures him in good time. (He may have slipped into  _ Godspeed  _ a little.)

As he scampers across the long, swishing grass to the baker’s shop, mouth watering, he can hear voices coming from the inside.

A man’s voice. “You’re sure.”

“I am.” This voice is that of a woman, warm but firm. “Garlic won’t be in season for another few months. Twelve Jenny is my final price.”

“But Reina—”

“Never mind.” A third voice—still feminine, but low and cold and hollow. “I’ll take a loaf of sourdough, then.”

Coins clatter—than the door swings open, and a child clad in black with long red hair steps out.

With the oddest-looking creature Killua's ever seen.

It resembles nothing so much as a cross between a rabbit, a squirrel and a bear—the teeth and nose of a rabbit, the half-moon ears of a bear, and it clings to  the child’s back like a squirrel—but it’s clearly none of those things. The face is too wide, too flat; the limbs are too stumpy, possessing none of the strength of a rabbit’s; the body too plump.

Its fur is bright candy-pink.

At the sight of him the child starts, dropping their bread.

The gathering wind pulls Killua's hat away. It lands with a  _ swish  _ of grass. 

“You made me drop my bread.”

“I'm… sorry?”

“Nah. It's okay. I just thought you looked like someone I knew.”

From their back, the peculiar pink creature hops down, the scurries over to retrieve Killua’s stray hat. “Here.”

Something in Killua’s brain gives a loud, beeping error message. “Wait. You can _ talk?” _

“Of  _ course  _ I can talk!” the creature responds indignantly. “I’m a  _ human _ , ain’t I? Can’t you feel my aura?”

Killua’s about to say  _ you don’t look much like one— _ but as he focuses, he can see the soft glow of  _ Ten  _ surrounding the creature. 

There is no aura from the child.

_...Zetsu? Or just not trained?  _ Killua thinks, feeling a chill on his spine.

“Zobae-blasted faeries and their curses,” the creature mutters, stalking over to the other side of the field and folding his paws against his chest.

Killua runs one hand through his hair. “Well, ah, it was nice meeting you—Reina, was it?”

Amethyst eyes flash. “Don't call me Reina. That’s a girl’s name. I’m a _ boy.” _

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Reina’s my sister.”

Above them, the sky clouds over.

“C’mon,” the boy’s pet calls from across the field. “We’ll need that bread for supper.”

And with a passing, “Garlic bread’s out of season, you know,” the two of them are gone.

Killua shrugs, then turns into the shop. 

The room is dark inside, he notices, pulling open the door; lit only by a small window, the clay of its edge dyed gray and dusty in the little slice of light. Opposite the door stands a long low, wooden counter covered in loaves of bread—some fresh, some stale, some wearing a mantle of unappetizing blue fuzz. More bread hangs from the ceiling—and through that curtain, he can see the warm glow of a lit oven. Its warmth floods out, cozy and sweet and  _ absolutely mouthwatering. _

“Hello?” Killua calls.

From the door at the back, a plump, matronly middle-aged woman bustles out, nearly tripping over her faded apron. “Oh,  I’m so sorry, I dain’t hear ya come in. What can I do for ya, good sir?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any fruit tarts, would you? Or anything honey-glazed. Or maple, though I’d prefer honey, come to think of it.”  _ I mean,  _ he thinks dryly, somewhere over his insistent stomach, _ I’m gonna bet you don’t have white sugar here… _

“Well, I mean, we _ do _ have some tarts, though they ain’t real fresh…” She looks down at the counter, muttering softly under her breath. “I ain’t sure about the maple, though.” An apologetic smile as she looks up at Killua. “Sorry if I’m a little frazzled today. My son Loben’s taken ill—he’s fine, don’t worry, it’s just a cough—and Zelia’s baby due any day now, and…” She shudders. “And, that boy you saw coming in… Yer not from ‘round these parts, ain’t ya?”

“You could say that.”

“Fancy,” she mutters, half to herself. “Don't get many visitors round these here parts. Zelia’d just about up and leave that husband o’ hers if she knew a man like  _ you'd _ come gallopin’ up. Well, uh,   _ anyways—”  _ her eyes turn strident, pleading—“Stay away from those three, him ‘n’ his brother ‘n’ sister. Queer children, they are.”

_ I mean, you’re probably not wrong. _

“Some say they got dealings with the Fae.” Eyes round as saucers, she scurries over to a small silver bell resting on the counter and gives it three tiny rings.  “Be careful tonight. Go out with some stale bread in yer pocket, it’ll drive the faeries away sure as dawn.” Shaking her head as if to clear away darkness, she forces her voice to turn bright as she asks, “Now. What can I do for ya?”

“Well, “ Killua sighs. “I suppose we’d need a couple of loaves of sourdough. And some hardtack.” He grimaces. “And, again, if you have any honeycakes, that’d be  _ great… _ ”

_ Otherwise, I’m in for a depressingly tasteless next few weeks…. Wait. _

A cheeky grin curls his mouth as he says, “Hey, would you by any chance happen to have some garlic bread?”

“Oh, um, right. Yes we do, though it'll be expensive this time of year—”

Killua’s smirk broadens. “Fifteen jenny. Right.”

“Oh! You can… I mean, thank you!”

But Killua’s cocky smirk dies on his face as he reaches in his bag to see-

One copper ten-jenny piece, shining mockingly at the bottom of his bag.

One copper piece, and nothing more.

_ Fuck. _

Killua’s got half a mind to go marching back up that hill and demand his money back from the tailor when another idea alights on his mind. His hand darts to a side pouch—and is rewarded with the weight of metal in his hand.  _ It’s still here. Good. _

“Well,” he drawls, “I’m afraid I don’t have fifteen jenny for you, but…” Slowly, carefully, he draws the shield-shaped pin from his bag and lets it fall to the counter with a soft _thunk._ The woman’s eyes widen as a slow smile spreads over her face.

“...Will that do?”

Even in the low light, the metal still gleams, lustrous and brilliant. “Is… is this  _ gold?” _

Killua throws her a smug grin. “See for yourself.”

With a childlike tempo, she hastens out from behind the counter and takes the pin over to the light of the window. Once in the sunlight, it  _ blooms _ , face shining to reveal a shield divided into quarters—opposing squares of gold and deep purple glass. Across its face, a delicately-enameled golden dragon winds, a sheath of arrows clutched in its claws, its serpentine body forming a neat  _ Z  _ as it crisscrosses the shield. Above the dragon, three tiny fleur-de-lis protrude, throwing out spangles of light. 

The Zoldyck family crest.

She runs her hands over the badge as if thinking it might disappear at any moment. “This dragon… Where’d you get this?”

“Hah?” Killua shoots her a sidelong glance. “It was just… given to me, I guess.”  _ By my parents. So others would know who I was. _

“And are you  _ sure  _ you’ve never been here?”

“Yeah… why?”

“Because—” With creeping steps, she moves to shut the door. It closes with a soft  _ thunk _ . “Do you know the story of the great battle against the Faerie King?”

“Yeah. Rose made of fire and all. Why?”

“Because I was  _ there _ .”

Killua blinks, stunned. 

“I was there that night, when the Faerie King took us—all us country folk—to his palace. it started like a dream—I  _ felt _ that I would go to the woods, without really knowing why?” The light from the pin bounces as her hand starts to shake. “Wasn’t long before I worked out it was a spell, a faerie enchantment of some sort. But by then, I couldn’t stop my legs…”

Her eyes well up. “I  _ knew _ I was going to die… but then I looked up and saw  _ it.  _ A golden dragon, just like this one, shining there right over the Faerie King's palace. And then it turned into a shower of arrows, and we could hear explosions, and then…” She swallows hard.

“The rose of fire,” Killua breathes.

She bows her head. “Yes. I saw it billowing from the faerie palace… filled the air with such ash I thought it right ‘bout impossible for us to breathe.” Eyes downcast , voice hushed as she continues, “So many of us were taken sick after that battle… people even said it was Zobae. But I always thought ‘twas the Faerie King's blight, that somehow, it had even managed to reach us even after he was slain. And then the giant…” She blinks over glassy eyes. “S-sir… does this town seem quiet to you?”

_ A bit,  _ Killua wants to say, but his mouth is dry. 

And besides, he already knows the answer.

The gathering storm in the woman’s eyes finally breaks. “We’ve lost so many. Between the war, the sickness, and the giant…” Twin tears spill down her cheeks, hitting the floor with a soft  _ plop _ . “Yunin, Chevan, Raya, Cohle… Kannin—he was only _ fourteen—” _

Her voice shatters as she buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with barely-muffled sobs—and Killua feels the breath tangle in his throat, tangle and stay stuck there like a snag in yarn.  _ Grandfather's  _ hatsu?  _ Why would he… _

_ What  _ happened _ that night? _

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her red-rimmed eyes as she looks up at Killua once more. “It’s j—”

_ “Mom!” _ screams a voice, high and desperate and bleeding and _ raw— _ and both of them whirl to see a little girl burst through the door with a  _ crash _ , tugging her tiny brother by the hand. Her face is bleached, her eyes shine wild, and tears flow freely down her brother’s face. “Mom…  _ Mom…” _

The baker’s shout seems to nearly split the world in two. “What is it, honey?! What’s wrong?!”

And Killua feels his blood run cold as the child says, “It’s the giant—he’s  _ here—” _

***

_ There’s a hole where Killua used to be. _

_ Gon can’t see it with his own eyes, but he knows it’s  _ there _ , a looming dark shape lurking on the edges of his fragile little world, threatening to swallow him whole with every step. _

_ The fists are still there—but then they never truly  _ leave _ , do they, they always stay, always beating at his mind with the force of thunder always dyed white and black and red and  _ blue—so  _ much  _ blue—

_ Squall twitches. _

_ He feels cold. _

Killua—think of Killua—

_ Killua, who’d been swallowed up by the ground, who’d disappeared from his sight like the moon in a storm _ —

He’s safe. He’s just shopping for us.  He’ll come back any minute, now, you’ll see. Stop worrying so much. You’re scaring Squall.

…But then, I thought  _ Kite _ was—

_ A  _ pop _ as his thumb dislocates in his own fist.  _

_ It hurts. _

_ A little. _

Killua’s safe he's just shopping for us you’re worrying too much Killua’s  _ safe— _

Think about flowers or some shit.

_ He exhales through two fingers— _ the Kurta gesture of remembrance,  _ he remembers suddenly _ —what is Kurapika doing now—

_ There's a village below him, crackling and warm and bright—a village with warm food and warm beds and warm hugs and  _ Killua—

_ A village in which he has no right to walk. _

_ His legs disobey him. _

Killua, don't worry. I'm  _ coming _ .

_ It’s a village just like every one he remembers—like the one he and Kurapika and Leorio had stopped on during the first few days of travel, the little ones he and Bisky had passed through while questing for Angel’s Breath… _

_ The one he'd woken up in after a desperate night racing through a distant forest, alone except for the beating heart of  _ Kite is alive I  _ know  _ he's alive I  _ know— _

_ The one he'd been raised in, resting by a turquoise cove lined with white-gold sand. _

_ Its a village like any other.  _ He's _ the one who has changed.  _

_ They've rebuilt some of it since he was here last.  _

_ “Killua!” he calls with a jaunty bounce, free and wild and bright— _

_ His voice is met with screams. _

_ As he walks through the village, he cuts a neat wake of fear. Mothers gather up their children; farmers their chickens. The men—and a fair portion of the women—brandish sickles, hatchets, pitchforks. _

They hate me. 

_ Something crashes just above his right eye. Warm metallic liquid trickles down to blind him. _

Of  _ course _ they do.

_ When he speaks, his voice is high, creaking—the boy who’d first walked into this forest. “Killua?” _

_ “Gon!” _

_ Gon whips his head in the direction of the answering shout-and sees a tall, slender, white-haired man hurrying across the field toward him.  _

_ Wearing a blue hat. _

Of course,  _ the boy inside of him thinks, the one who’s never truly died.  _ Kite wouldn't let that thing beat him—

_ But as he looks closer, a sickening worm of uncertainty burrows into his gut. The man is tall and lean, to be sure, but nowhere near  _ as  _ tall and lean. Corded muscles line his frame, where Kite had been nothing but wire. The angles of his face are different too—the jawline is slightly more square; the nose snub—almost feminine—instead of craggy. The eyes are wider, teardrop- instead of diamond- shaped; their blue ( _ were  _ Kite’s eyes blue?) deeper and more vivid, closer to purple. Hair short and wavy instead of long and straight—and the figure’s hands morph into claws.  _

No—

_ The Kite-Pitou hybrid—this hideous  _ thing  _ that the faeries have created—tilts its head to the side, the lie of worry burning in its eyes. “Gon, are you okay?” _

_ Aura burns in his fist.  _

_ “First comes rock…” _

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, there is some suicidal ideation in this chapter. If you need to avoid such content for any reason, stop reading when Killua thinks ‘except me’, and keep scrolling or ctrl+f the three asterisks that mark the end of the scene.

Killua doesn’t even have to think.

_ Godspeed. _

_ *** _

Terpsichora,  _ Gon thinks he hears but the figure is too fast, too fast _ again,  _ dodging his _ Rock easily _  in a silent blur of  _ white—Kite—you said you’d save Kite—you  _ promised… _

_ The figure crashes into him. Gon braces himself for pain, blinks open eyes expecting to see beads of  _ red— _ a jolt of pain as his spine collides with the ground, the Pitou-Kite  _ thing  _ straddling his chest and Gon feels the crack of lightning between them, of  _ Nen—

Not a faerie…?

_ Nothing makes sense anymore—or maybe it has  _ never _ made sense, and he's just starting to realize it. _

_ A hand caressing his cheek. “It's me. It’s your Killua.” The thing’s voice carries a hint of a sob. “You remember me... right?” _

_ Killua.  _

_ His star man.  _

_ Killua, leaping through the trees, the only light he'd seen; Killua's bemused smile as the fish fell into his hair… _

_ Killua, fingers reaching through the haze of pain as his soft voice said  _ I’m here.

_ Killua, who’s lit up his world with one touch, one word. _

Killua.

_ He is crying, he is crying before he even  _ knows _ he’s crying, Killua’s face soft and blurred above him, those azure eyes broken,  _ melted… _ “I’m—I’m  _ sorry,  _ Killua, I’m  _ sorry…”

_ Killua’s breath is warm and ragged on his face. His eyes are their own tiny sky. _

_ Dimly, he feels Killua shift off of him, feels the other man stand. “Come on. Let’s go home.” _

***

As the two of them trek back to Gon’s cave that night, a line of thunderheads swallows the sunset. Looming like warships, they stretch out along the horizon, obscuring the sunset from memory, from light, its only sign a few golden rays piercing the gathering dusk.

In the distance, thunder rumbles.

Gon walks ahead of him, now, his great shoulders swaying in time with his steps. At his side, his hand balls up into a fist.

_ I have to talk to him. _

_ This can’t go on. _

Killua feels blood thudding in his ears, sees their glass-fragile bond.  _ He will hate me.  _

_ I just need to give it a moment. _

His stomach crawls.

By the time Killua finds the words to speak with, the sky is dark, and a rattling wind scours the branches. “Gon?”

“Mm.” He can’t see Gon in the inky darkness, but he can certainly  _ feel _ him; feel that deep, tumultuous pool of aura just ahead.

It’s calmer, he notices; less fractured, less jagged than the night they first met.

“When we were in the village… who did you think I was?”

Gon's aura visibly contracts, shrinking into him until it's almost another skin. “No one.” The words are small and tight. “It's not important.”

“I'd say it's pretty damn important. Considering how you tried to kill me over it.”

“I said I was sorry, Killua. I—”

“I  _ heard _ you.”

Squall’s hoof-falls, loud against the soft whispers of the wind.

“I—” Gon’s voice withers. “I would  _ never _ want to hurt Killua.”

_ He would never want to hurt me.  _

The world trembles, rippling like a dream; and if Killua closes his eyes, he feels like he might just float away.

Killua swallows it down.

_ It’s just like Wolf, you know?   _ Illumi’s voice, silky in his mind.  _ You’ll drive him away. You weren’t made for this. _

_ It’s time you came home. _

“Gon, I—”  _ I don’t want to say this don’t  _ make  _ me say this— _ His insides roil. “We had an  _ agreement,  _ remember? I was going to help you find the person who cursed you, and  _ you  _ weren't going to hurt anyone else.”

“And I  _ didn’t!  _ Hurt anyone else, I mean.” Gon’s footsteps slow, and a big meaty hand reaches out of the dark to pat Squall on the head. She shies, threatening to bolt from under Killua’s reins. “Right, Killua?”

Killua swallows the sourness in his mouth.

“So it’s okay, right? Right? I didn’t hurt anyone, and you’re still here. We’re both okay.  Everything's gonna be okay. Right?” A wistful note enters his voice, sweet and sad. “Hey, you know, when we were in the village—”

Fat droplets on the top of his head. “I saw the aura in your fist. When you saw me.”

The whistle of the wind.

“I was…” Dimly, he hears Gon swallow. “Confused. I guess.”

“So I gathered.”

A flash of blue-white as the air cracks apart.

“Gon, I…” A black yawning void opens in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. “I want to stay by your side.”

There. 

Thunder booms.

He’s  _ said _ it—and with just those words, the world feels different, somehow; different and yet  _ right _ , as if every missing key to his heart has fallen into place.

Killua’s words are like a dead thing as he says, “But I can’t do that. Not if you’re unwilling to control yourself.”

The rattling wind speaks with Illumi’s voice—and if Killua closes his eyes, he can see his hands, razor-sharp, slicing through their bond.

“I thought you were special, you know. Someone who could understand.”

The  _ whoosh  _ of leaves in the wind, the slow roll of thunder.

“Killua…?”

His voice lays flat against the storm. “Someone who knew what it was like to look down at your fingers and see blood.”

“Killua, I—”

“But I was a fool.” He feels his mouth twist into a sneer. “An Ai-damned fool, wasn’t I? You weren't like me. You  _ never  _ were. There wasn’t anyone  _ making _ you kill, and yet you did, you  _ did _ , over and over again. And I followed you, remember? That day you tried to teach me how to cook.”

“That day I punched the tree,” Gon whispers.

“You—you must’ve lost your temper. Somehow. And I  _ tried _ to forget. I  _ tried  _ to drown myself in your smile.”  _ And I’d do it all over again if you would just  _ smile _ at me like that— _ “But then… everything that happened in the village. Well. It happened.”

“I  _ said _ I was  _ sorry—” _

Killua’s words come out soft, breathy. “That’s why I asked you to stay in the forest, you know. So that you wouldn’t hurt anyone."

_ Except me. _

_ If I’d died... _

He lets his though trickle back to the village, listening to the hum of everyday life—the laughter of children, the cluck of chickens. The wife arguing with her husband, the tailor’s gruff smile…

The sadness on the baker’s voice as she spoke of the war.

_ We’re like the faeries, aren’t we? We live in this forest, we destroy. _

_ It’s like the tales are repeating themselves… _

And evil must perish; that’s the way it  _ always  _ goes, in songs and stories—and all it would take is one twist of the little clasp, he knows. And  the sun will still rise and children will still be born and the baker will still bake—and, somewhere, a little princess will grow up, will take her first tottering steps, will laugh and cry and weave endless chains of flowers.

Nothing will change if the two of them disappear.

Something white-hot and blazing finds his nerves—and for a heartbeat, he feels like he’s falling, like the ground has turned upside down and deposited him into empty air.  _ We wouldn’t have a nice afterlife.  _ The thought races around the confines of his mind. Would it be cold? Or hot? Would it hurt, the way it had when Gon’s kick slammed into him that first night?

Would Gon go there with him, if he asked?

Overhead, the sky splits.

The rain that comes down is hot and salty on his face.

_ If I didn’t have you… where would I go? _

“Are you okay, Killua?” 

The rain is thicker now.

“I’m fine.”

A pause, and Killua can picture Gon’s brow scrunching up as he says the words. “Really? Because your aura looked kinda dark…”

He’s soaked to the bone, he notices; his nice new clothes hang sodden and icy against his skin. “I’m  _ fine.” _

“Killua... isn’t hurt, is he?” 

_ Oh. Right. He wouldn’t know about the charm. _

_ But if you did… _

He can’t, he  _ won't _ , remember Gon’s eyes in the village, only hours ago, the darkness, the  _ hollowness… _

The way Gon had stared at, no,  _ through _ him, aura dark and twisted with fury. 

As if the Killua he’d known had never even existed.

_ You wouldn’t’ve done anything different, would you? _

“No.” The words are short. Clipped. “I’m not.”

_ Father said to never betray your friends… _

He watches Gon’s retreating back in silence.

Gon is only steps away from him now, but it might be the whole world.

_ Brother…  you were right about me, weren’t you?  _

His stomach drops.

A wave of fatigue crashes over him, stealing the breath from his lungs, filling his head with a dull gray haze. Still in Squall’s saddle, he leans heavily against her neck, pressing his face to her wet, filthy mane.  _ When did I get so tired…? _

“Why do you have to have white hair?”

Killua starts. Gon’s voice is so soft against the darkness that it takes a second for him to realize he’s even spoken at all.

“Huh?”

“I…” He hears Gon swallow. “Never mind.”

The sound of Gon’s footsteps in the mud.

Killua leans against Squall’s neck once more. The rain runs, cold and lifeless, down his face.

He’s exhausted.

A pressure on the top of his head—and Killua looks up to see Gon extend his hand, run his thick fingers through Killua’s hair. 

Killua stiffens, pulls away from Gon’s warm hand. “Wow. What was  _ that _ for?”

When he speaks again, Gon’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “I just wanted to make sure you were still real.”

***

“Come on, Killua. Let’s hurry.” When Gon speaks again, there’s a newfound not of urgency in his voice. “There’s a stream we have to ford to get back to the cave. It should be okay now, but…”

Killua nods, sitting up, and spurring Squall on.  _ Once we get back to the cave.  _ Then _ I’ll talk to him. _

They travel in silence for a while, Killua on Squall’s back, Gon walking ahead, the steady  _ squelch  _ of his footprints in the mud the only sign of his presence. The blackness is all-consuming, every bit as deep as it had been the night they’d met; and for a while Killua just lets the world flow on by, out of sight, out of reach. 

“We’re here.”

“Okay,” Killua drawls, stretching languidly in the saddle, “I’m gonna need some more definition as to where, exactly, ‘here’ is.”

“At the ford.” He hears, rather than sees, Gon purse his lips. “Okay, Killua, lemme think… here’s how we’re going to do this… Okay, you get off Squall, and then we’ll cross—me on the downstream side, you on the upstream side and Squall in between us.”

“Couldn’t we just use  _ Gyo  _ and jump it?” Killua mutters sleepily, only half listening.

“What about Squall, then?”

“Oh. Right.” Killua complies, sliding to the ground. He gets to his feet—as the world around him is bathed in yellow-orange light.

The light shining in Gon’s fist.

Killua’s blood runs cold—but the other man does nothing.  _ Of course,  _ he thinks, his head spinning,  _ he must’ve just turned it on to see… _

Killua shakes his head, rain-leaden white curls trembling. “Okay.  C’mon.” Taking Squall by the reins, he starts toward the riverbank.

Gon doesn’t follow. 

Killua whips around to see him crouched down, staring at the mud. His aura is the color of a bruise.

Killua feels chill fingers run down his spine.

Gon is motionless, utterly  _ motionless _ , the kind of stillness that belongs to a corpse—and, for a second, Killua’s mind tells him that Gon  _ is  _ dead, that Killua’s killed him and their bond in one blow—

His stomach turns. He opens his mouth, tries in vain to say his best friend’s name.

With all the slowness of death, Gon reaches out and traces an invisible shape in the mud, then withdraws his hand.

He does not stand up.

_ “Gon-” _ Killua’s words sharpen, now, as he hurries over to Gon. “What-” 

Slowly, lifelessly, Gon stands up. Looks him in the eye.

And unfolds his fist. 

At first, Killua thinks it’s a piece of broken glass Gon holds—but as it catches the light of his  _ hatsu,  _ Killua realizes with a sickening lurch that it’s not glass at  _ all— _

The veins in the faerie-wing shard glitter, as if still alive.

“She’s here.”

“...She?”

Something lurches up Killua’s throat.

The leftover light from the broken wing shimmers in Gon’s trembling hand—and then he closes his fist, and shattered scales drift to the ground.  When Gon opens his hand, his palm is stained red. 

“Killua,” he whispers, eyes rimmed with white and focused on something very far away, “Take Squall. Go.”

Killua’s words come out choked.  _ “Idiot.  _ You  _ know  _ I can’t go—not without  _ you—” _

Gon sits down heavily. Leaden. “Killua should leave. If he knows what’s good for him.”

_ “Hey—”  _ Killua’s voice breaks— “you can’t think you’re going to get rid of me  _ that  _ easily, dumbass. Didn’t I say I’d help you f—”

_ Oh. _

His legs are oddly weak as he walks over to sit beside Gon. “That was  _ her _ ... wasn't it? The faerie who left the wing.”

His voice is very small as he says, “The one who cursed you.”

Gon says nothing, only buries his face in the crook of his arm—and Killua realizes, with a flash of sickening clarity, that  _ this, _ the ghost who was stalking Gon’s mind, was something that could not be killed.

“Killua,  _ please.”  _ Gon‘s voice is flat. “I- I don't want you to see me like this.”

“I think it's a bit too late to worry about that,” he says wryly, with a lightness he doesn’t feel. “Didn’t… didn’t I  _ say  _ I’d help you?” Killua reaches out to touch his shoulder—and stops, his hand faltering away. 

His fingers are shaking.

“...Didn't I say I wanted to be by your side?”

When Gon’s voice comes again, it is scarcely more than a whisper. “I was stupid. To ask you to fight for me.”

There is no sound, he realizes. The rain has stopped.

“Because this wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

Their world might as well be a grave.

_ If I kill her—this faerie… _

He frowns. Could  _ I even kill her?  _

Beneath his rain-slick hair, Gon’s shoulders tense as he draws himself in even tighter.

_ But if I did...  would you have your peace? _

_ *** _

Neither of them speak after they ford the stream—and, with no goodbye, Killua watches as Gon disappears into the night. He himself rides away, finds a tree, and waits hollowly for the dawn.

Through red-rimmed eyes, he watches as the sun rises, watches it paint the world in color—the green of the leaves, the pinks and golds of the clouds—and, if Killua closes his eyes, he can almost picture Gon at the base of the tree.

_ Because you looked lonely. _

His heart hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to the lovely Tasariel, one of the first people to ever start following this fic!! Her birthday was on Thursday, and she’s genuinely a wonderful person who deserves aaaaaalllll the birthday wishes. And, Tasare, if you’re reading this, happy birthday and SINCERE THANKS for all your support. This fic would not be what it is without your encouragement *-*


	12. Chapter 12

_ Gon can’t find him. _

_ He searches and searches, and keeps catching his star man’s scent—but every time he  _ does  _ the trail twists, grows stale and cold, folding in on itself as if to cower away— _

_ He paces. _

_ The moon grows high and full before sinking into nothingness once more. _

_ He still can’t find him. _

_ The sun rises. _

_ The stars wink out. _

***

“Where do I go from here, Squall?” Killua asks some time later, sitting slumped by the base of the tree. His eyes are dry, his cheeks wet.

The mare gives no response.

_ If I kill this faerie—if I do what I promised him… there’s no reason for me to be with him, is there? I’ll have to leave. _

_ This is what always was meant to happen,  _ he hears Illumi’s voice—he hears his own—saying in his mind. _ What else did you think you could do? With  _ that  _ miserable thing you call a life? _

_ Shut up,  _ Killua tries to protest, but what little shreds he has of a  _ self _ cannot find the words.  _ I… _

_ Maybe—maybe I won’t find her today. _

_ Maybe Gon won’t either. _

_...And maybe he’ll be the kind person I saw. _

_ I can dream, can’t I. _

The distant sun gives no response.

He wants to laugh. 

“Well, Squall…” he says as he gets to his feet, the sleeplessness hanging off him like a shroud, “guess we better get going.”

He lifts his tack and bridle off the ground . Squall stands patiently while he saddles her, never once flinching at the cold metal joints on her skin.

With grim determination, Killua swings himself onto her back—and spurs her off into the woods. “We’ve got a faerie to catch.”

***

_ His stars are gone. _

_ He realizes this some time later, as he lies crumpled in the undergrowth. The sky before him is blue, and white, but he can't see the stars. _

What else could I do?  _ he asks the clouds. _

_ The memories are  _ there _ again, pressing down on his fragile mind… _

Why do you have to have white hair?

***

Killua had intended to go straight from his camp to the river, but in the end, the long hours of sleeplessness take their toll. By the time he's nearly falling off Squall, he decides to rest, just for a _moment—_ and then he’s lost in a dreamscape, Gon by his side. And in his dreams, Gon is smiling as he holds Killua close, every inch of their bodies pressed together, and the light from his eyes outshines the sun.

Killua wakes, almost still feeling Gon’s warm hand brushing his cheeks. He stretches, but his body, stiff from its restless night, still aches. Slowly, his steps weighted, he mounts Squall and rides the way rest of the way to the stream.

The sun is sinking, he realizes; its light has turned yellow-orange as it falls, casting the clouds in amber, lengthening the shadows. There is no sound—no wind blows, no birds sing. Even the stream that had so raged in last night’s rain is still, its water swirling lazily in eddies.

If Killua forgets, it almost seem like he and Squall are the only living beings on earth.

The tracks are still there—Squall’s hoofprints, the outline of the soles of his own boots. Gon’s footprints, bare and far deeper than Killua’s own. The imprint of his thighs where he’d sat. And, scattered in between it all, dancing, slender shapes like a cat’s paw on edge, carved into the mud.

_ Are these faerie tracks? _

_ They don’t look like they could support a human-sized creature, _ he thinks as he kneels down for a closer look, b _ ut then, we’re dealing with faerie magic here. There’s no certainty that what I’m seeing is correct. _

_...Shit. Did I just sign up for something I can’t even  _ track?

_ If you were really his friend, you’d follow through. _

The voice is loud in his mind, hissing like a snake—and, if Killua closes his eyes, he can see the glossy hair and empty eyes of its owner.

_ Look at you. You’ve abandoned him  _ already _ , haven't you? How pathetic. _

Killua’s hands turn clammy.

_ You wanted to help him,  _ didn’t _ you. You wanted to think you could save him. That you'd come riding into his miserable life, that you’d manage to break him free from his own little hell— _

“Shut  _ up,”  _  Killua snarls, nails digging into his palm. He scans the clearing, everything in him searching for some kind of  _ escape— _ but of course he can’t run from his own mind. 

His heartbeat thrashes against his ribs.

_That you could be something more_ _than a killer._

Killua grinds his teeth.

_ It’s funny, really. You know, for someone so smart, you certainly are foolish. _

“I- I don’t want you in my brain anymore,” he says, and hates himself for the weakness in his own voice.

_ But that’s all  _ he _ wanted, wasn’t it, for you to kill that faerie who cursed him. He never wanted you as a friend. _

Killua squeezes his eyes shut, tries to hold onto  _ Gon— _ his cheeky grin as he’d teased Killua about the fish; the warmth in his voice as he’d said  _ I'd like to call my star man his name _ . His  _ eyes _ , sparkling in the firelight the first night they’d spoken, the infectious grin in his voice as he’d said  _ race ya _ —and Killua saw the lightning crackle around himself and felt  _ alive,  _ felt his heart leap, the blood rushing through his veins like music— _ because you looked lonely... _

Gon’s hand squeezing his own, the fingers wrapped tight with a thousand unspoken promises.

When the words come next, they are not Illumi’s. They are his own.

_ That wasn’t real. He never truly cared for me. _

_ He’s just… naturally friendly. The friendliest monster you ever saw. _

He can still see the blood glistening on Gon’s fist.

_...I'll have to kill you, too, won’t I? Once I kill her, there’s nothing stopping you from being… what you were… _

The world spins, and he’s five years old again, five years old and looking down at the body of a little gray dog.

Killua buries his face in his knees. No tears come.

_ I’m really good at destroying shit, huh? Figures. _

_ Gon, I’m sorry. For giving you false hope. _

_ *** _

_ Killua is gone. _

_ Gon paces the forest, past trees he’s passed a  _ thousand _ times over, past rocks and hills, the same ones every day, searching for  _ something, anything  _ beyond this wood, this little stretch of not-quite-reality he’s condemned himself to— _

_ Searching for a place with no memories. _

_ It had seemed real, for just a  _ minute— _ Killua had came into his life, and said  _ you’re a person, aren't you,  _ and he had smelled like smoke and strawberries and rain, and Gon had breathed him in. _

_ For just a moment he had seemed real. _

_ Gon breathes in. The air tastes of nothing. _

_ He doesn’t ever stop. _

_ *** _

_ By the time the sun is yellow-orange and dying, Gon has realized two things. _

_ One: Killua had came into his dusty thing called a  _ life  _ bringing rain, and smiles, and memories; and Gon had felt their hearts racing, felt the world around him suddenly turn clear before his eyes as this body that wasn’t really his had  _ yearned—

_ Two: Killua hadn’t died. He’d killed Killua, and Killua hadn’t died. So that means he… _

isn’t it time for you to go to sleep?

***

It’s several hours before Killua manages to find a consistent pattern in the tracks; and by then, it’s already night. The sky has clouded over again; and a cold, lifeless rain streams down, stripping the warmth from his body, clinging to him like a watery shroud. Killua walks through the still forest, Squall by his side, following the trampled, muddy, tracks of the faerie as they zigzag through the woods— _ here  _ a dropped splinter of a wing, shimmering in the light of his  _ hatsu _ ;  _ there _ a speck of a leaf too alien to be any familiar tree. As dark as it is, Killua can only go in fits and starts, stumbling in the dark between clues, his restless mind urging him onward,  _ onward,  _ into this coldest night of spring.

He can’t help but wonder which clue would be the last.

_ If I don’t find her—if I  _ can't  _ find her… _

_ Then I won’t have to leave him, will I?  _  he thinks, a selfish seed of longing, of  _ want  _ beginning to blossom within his heart.  _ If I don’t find her—then I can stay with him. _

_ As long as he needs me. _

His heart leaps.

_ Forever. _

( _ Would _ that be forever, he wonders, as the icy rain trails down his cheeks before falling in droplets from his chin.)

_ If I don’t find her… _

A memory: himself sitting alone in this very forest, looking down at a little cat of black glass. Watching the swirl of glowing ash, feeling the sear of heat as his brother’s letter burnt in his hand.

_ Father said never to betray your friends. _

_ If I turn around now… _

_ He’ll never forgive me, will he. _

Another clue, leaves crumpled in the twisted-paw shape of the faerie tracks. Killua leans down, examines the print; then, with weighted steps, starts toward the direction it points.

_ Gon… are you watching me right now? _

_ Will this bring you peace? _

The rain has stopped, he notices, the air is silent and still and cool, and above his head, he can see the faint glow of the moon as the clouds are pulled apart. With that, it’s easier—he leans down, finds a relatively dry branch, and lets his lightning wreath it in sooty flame. Holding his makeshift torch, he scans the clearing, looking for any sign of the faerie’s path once more. 

With more light, he can see that the trail has taken him to a set of high, precipitous bluffs. On his right, the ground falls sharply away into nothingness, and he can hear thundering rapids below.

... _ Shit. This is really not the best place to be. _

_ Especially if I’m going to fight a faerie up here. _

He hangs back, towards the edge of the trees, careful to avoid the rain-slick rocks of the cliff edge. Every nerve is tight.

_ Are you here?  _ he asks, teeth gritted, heart thudding.  _ Are you going to find me first? _

He knows how to kill; he’s had that lesson seared into his brain, a thousand times over—and if he was doing this  _ right,  _ he would have mapped out his target’s path down to the minute. He would lie in wait, knife-sharp hands at the ready, counting the seconds until he could open his target’s throat into  _ red _ .

He would smell the copper, the salt. He would wash his hands.

He would try not to think about what he'd just destroyed.

Killua breathes out, slowly, shakily; and his eyes dart, searching for something,  _ anything  _ in the blackness beyond...

He starts toward the trees.

And stops.

His foot lands on something. Something hard, yet giving at the same time, something cold and rubbery and crinkling and—were those  _ ribs? _

Killua looks down.

His foot is on a body.

It lies on its side, its gray, worm-eaten flesh half-buried in leaves, one arm splayed uselessy by his ankle. Clawlike fingers roll at his weight. The swell of its chest suggests womanhood, but the thick hands and shoulders belie that fact. The corpse wears nothing but a jacket and bloomers made out of—what  _ looks  _ like—autumn leaves, each one peppered with tiny dried flakes of navy blue.

Its neck ends in a ragged stump.

_ What… how…  _  Killua feels bile rise in his throat as he jumps back, torch abandoned,  _ Godspeed _ crackling to life around him—

The soft sucking of mud as the corpse peels itself off the ground.

It has no  _ Nen,  _ he realizes with a shudder—the corpse floats in the darkness through _ nothing,  _ like every childhood ghost, every monster in the fairy-stories he’d read.

The creature lunges.

Killua’s  _ Whirlwind _ does the work for him, pulling him aside in a fraction of a second.

Pulling him towards the cliff.

His feet scrabble for purchase—and only find wet, slick stone.

Gravity does its work.

Killua’s feet spin off into nothingness, sick panic racing through his gut—but before he can fall, he turns his fingernails into knives and digs their edges into the rock.

His nails splinter.

It hurts. 

A little. 

Above him, the moon breaks free of the racing clouds, turning his hair to sterling. Inch by inch, his grip falters.

Emptiness yawns beneath him. 

The sound of the rapids is very far away. 

And, just as his fingers give, a clawlike hand reaches out of the darkness.

To grab at his hair.

It’s only just a bit, but the weight off his fingers lets him reach  _ upward,  _ to solid ground, and haul himself back on the cliff; the corpse’s death-bloated fingers still tangled in his hair.

With more light, he can see it clearly now—see the skeletal puppeteer holding it in its wires, the catlike eyes on its frame peering at Killua with rapt attention—

The wings, crumpled and silvery on its back.

Matching the scrap Gon had found in the mud.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Killua breathes, his voice stark against the tranquil night. “The one who cursed him.”

The body gives no response.

“The one I saw in the barn.”

His mind goes back to another hour, weeks ago: Gon by his side, his eyes sparkling in the firelight as Killua took in his body— _ someone did that to you, didn’t they—and then you could finally have some rest— _

He stares at this corpse, at this thing he cannot kill, and understands.

_ Gon—I couldn’t do anything for you. _

The corpse leaves.

He feels himself sit, feels the weight of his head in his useless hands.

_ I’m sorry… _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about not updating on Saturday as usual, RL stuff got in the way!!


	13. Chapter 13

_ Three: Killua had been angry, had flung hard words and eyes at the storm inside of him. Even though he couldn’t die. _

_ Four: Gon deserved it. _

“Aunt Mito?” he asks, a note of caution in his voice, as the two of them stand, side by side, rolling out the dough on the wooden block in front of them.

“Hmm?”

There’s a speck in the dough, he notices; a tiny one, but there nonetheless. Gon reaches, pulls the offending dough free, then stands there worrying it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it intently as it forms a little tight, hard ball. “...What do you think my dad is doing right now?”

Mito’s eyes widen, just slightly. “Ging?” She chuckles a bit, one hand combing the hair at the back of her neck. “Well, I suppose…”

“I suppose, right now, he’s getting ready for the day, like us. He’s probably doing his morning chores, and eating, and looking up at this beautiful sky, and thinking of all the fun things he’s going to do today.” She smiles soft and sad, and turns her gaze to the window.

The sky  _ is  _ beautiful today; outside their small, misshapen window, it opens up wide above him, the blue of robin’s eggs melting into the blue of shallows shoals. A few silver wisps of cloud drift past high above, alone against the ultramarine—and below them, the white forms of seagulls swoop, their bow-shaped wings never flapping yet still strong.

The sea breeze calls to him, now, singing with the voice of the waves,  _ come, today is waiting— _

_ Ging, are you seeing the same sky right now? Is this what told you to leave? _

Even with his aunt by his side and sheep in the fields and the big, wide, open sky before him, he feels alone.

_ You left me behind, didn’t you? _

_ The sky is dark and cloudy now, as he lies on his side among the leaf litter, his curse-bloated body stiff and cold. Dark and cloudy, and lightless. _

_ He  _ still  _ can't see the stars. _

_ But Killua can, he knows—Killua is looking up at them, his blue eyes sparkling, his hair and the curve of his nose and the angles of his jaw all lit up by their silvery light. And Killua would smile, with that faint smile that he’d only gotten to see a few times, that smile he only showed when he thought Gon wasn’t looking, that smile full of a  _ warmth _ Gon is sure he’ll never quite admit. _

_ Killua, and the stars, and no room for Gon between them. _

_ His rotted-away aura and the memories that scrambled at his mind... _

you left me behind didn’t you—

_ *** _

Killua doesn’t sleep much that night either, and when he does, his dreams see him warm and content, lying in a field of sunlit grass with deep green hair pooling by his side.

He wakes.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

The sky is still dark.

_ This- and yesterday- was that the first time I’ve ever had a good dream?  _

His heartbeat quickens.  _ One where I  _ wasn’t  _ murdering anyone- I suppose it’s a start, at least. _

_ Figures. _

_ Just when it ends I start dreaming about him. _

He leaps down from his tree onto the hard, stony ground. “Come on, Squall. Let’s go back.”

***

I’m weak.

_ The boy inside of him says those words as a little black catlike creature darts around him, as he forms his hand into a fist and watches as no aura comes. _

I’m weak.

_ He squeezes his hand shut, barely noticing the sharp, bright flare of pain from his damaged thumb.  _

_ A fist that can’t do anything. _

_ He does not think of the self he would— _ should— _ have been, the strong self, the one that could rip the  _ slimy-dark-jagged  _ memories out of his skull, the one that slew an Arcknight  _ properly  _ instead of leaving this half-finished twisted corpse racing around the forest… _

_ The one that Killua would stay with. _

_ The one that died when he promised to. _

Aand Kite would be standing here, and he would smile, just a little bit but it’s  _ enough— _

_ Killua and Kite, together, their white hair and coolness and tiny smiles. _

_ Their warm places inside Gon’s heart. Kite-  _ KiteI’mso _ sorry- had been his mentor (almost father, he will not bear himself to think), his guide through hell if only for a little while; and  _ Killua-

_ He has no map, no experience for the bright, bubbly  _ feeling _ that flows through him at the thought of Killua, at his smile and prickly tongue, his secrets, his kindness. At the curve of his lips, the blue of his eyes... _

_ He bites his lip, feels his pulse pound in the shallow, bloody dents his teeth leave. The aura inside of him rages again, today, he notices distantly as the cloudy sky lightens—it rages, and thrashes, and— _

_ Had Killua seen this darkness? Had he looked at him and seen the hate, the rage that twisted his heart? _

_ Gon looks up at his hand, at the nails caked with dirt and blood. Watches the fingers squeeze nothing, and thinks of bones crunching, of flesh splattering at his touch. _

I’m an assassin,  _ Killua had said. _ A professional killer.

_ Would there have been blood on those beautiful feathery hands? _

_ Would they have had a chance to connect? _

_ (Would Killua ever lie beside him like this?) _

_ *** _

_ He’s not sure how long he lies there, chewing on his thoughts. _

_ The sun grows, from a thin line of light on the horizon to a round bright ball in the sky that hurts to look at, and then dies again, shrinking away to a dim blood-colored light. _

_ And then darkness. _

_ Footsteps. _

_ On the gravel. _

_ It’s too dark in the cave to see him—but he can hear his heartbeat and smell his smoke-and-strawberries scent, and feel his aura, cool and crisp, sharp like ice— _

_ Gon rushes to sit up, fizzy happiness in gut—but he bows his head, his eyes never managing to  _ quite  _ look at his star man. _

_ He hears the lightning crackling to life around Killua, the long slow exhale before the other man begins to speak. “Gon...” _

_ Gon lifts his gaze to find Killua’s face gaunt, his delicate skin somehow even paler than before. “She’s dead.” _

_ Killua’s words echo against the hollowness of the cave. _

_ “Dead?” Gon cocks his head, keeping his gaze level with Killua’s own. _

_ Killua crosses the mud-tracked floor to sit on an errant column of rock behind Gon. His head falls heavily into his cupped hands, and only then does Gon notice the dark circles under his eyes, the twigs in his hair, the streaks of mud on his clothes. “The faerie that you asked me to kill.” His voice is flat, expressionless. “She’s dead.” _

_ Gon’s eyes widen, turn hazy. “You… did it then…” _

_ He expects a warm rush of relief, but none comes. In its place, all he feels is a deep, bone-crushing wave of  _ fatigue _ , turning the world dull on its edge, dampening his senses and scraping his mind raw. Wordlessly, he slumps to the cave floor; lies folded awkwardly, painfully, like a child’s discarded doll. _

_ His eyes begin to close. _

I only swore for the power to defeat her, didn’t I?

_ He counts the seconds until his heartbeat slows. _

I’ll say “sorry” to you when I see you again, okay, Kite?

***

_ She’s dead. _

At those words, Gon crumples, and the fabric of his universe tears.

Without conscious thought, Killua springs from his seat and races over to Gon, beads of icy sweat forming on his spine.

He takes Gon’s chin in his hands. Gon’s eyes look the same as they always have, his skin is still the same luminous bronze—but his  _ Ten _ flies away from him like blood from a wound, and Killua sees long, snakelike, green-black hairs falling loose from his head. “Killua,” he murmurs, eyes clouded with a thousand different emotions—affection and sorrow and just a little bit of fear. “I’m  _ sorry… _ ”

_ Glad to hear it,  _ Killua wants to snap, but the softness in his giant’s eyes stays his tongue. He lets go of Gon’s chin, and watches as the other man curls up, his hair and beard wrapped tight around him, every muscle drawn tense.

Blood, trickling out on the cave floor between them, staining the water translucent red.

Killua’s breath seizes.

***

_ His star man was real.  _

_ His star man had come back. _

_ Gon raises his head to see Killua crouching by his side, gaze clouded, lips pressed together into a taut line. Slowly, as if Gon was made of glass, he runs one hand over Gon’s shoulder and down to his aching stump, fingers tenderly probing the spongy, rotting flesh. _

_ Checking for a wound, Gon realizes. _

_ Killua breathes, pupils blown, “Hellbell’s  _ tongue _ , Gon,  _ how _ are you not dead?”  _

He cares about me.

_ He feels that he might just fly out of his body—this great wreck of a body that was never truly his—at the thought. Gon smiles, soft and sad. “Don’t worry about me. I’m tough.”  _ No you’re not. _ “I’ll be okay, Killua, don’t make that face…” _

_ Sleep. _

_ It grips him, now, forcing his eyelids to flutter shut. Distantly, he hears Killua’s sharp intake of breath. _

_ Sleep. _

_ Just a little longer, and he would never have to wake again. _

_ Something flicking him on the forehead—and Killua’s voice saying, “Don’t  _ give _ me that, dumbass. You’re obviously  _ not _ fine.” _

Killua.

When I die...

_ He wouldn’t have a nice afterlife. _

You’d go somewhere else, right, Killua? You’d get to say hi to Kite.

_ He feels hot and cold at the same time, feels like the world might just turn upside down and dump him into the sky.  _ _ Hot and cold and so,  _ so  _ sad. _

Another world, without  _ Killua... _

_ “Now. Where’s the blood coming from?” Killua says briskly, the whites of his eyes wide. “Is it your arm? Did it-” _

It’s the curse,  _ he wants to shout.  _ I cursed myself, and now it’s breaking, and I don’t have much longer—

And I’m about to lose you.

_ He can see himself reflected in Killua's eyes, see Killua looking at a man with a thousand lives crushed under his fist—see the one who’d closed his ears at the words  _ just let me heal her—

_ The man who’d chased a dead body for five years. _

_ Who had that same dead body chasing him around his mind. _

Killua… 

You won’t come for me, will you? The minute you know.

_ A thousand memories race through his mind: himself in Killua’s arms as they race up the hill, his star man tilting his chin up to meet those blue eyes, the lightning shining around Killua as he’d leapt through the trees. _

_ Killua’s hand, pale and beautiful in his own, and their breath mingling in the space between their lips. _

I never deserved you did I—

_ The way Killua hadn’t run. _

_ “I-” His throat goes dry. _

It’s because I wasn’t strong enough.  It’s because I failed.

_ “Right. Not your stump, then. Though it  _ is  _ pretty gross,” Killua says with a grimace. “Where  else?”His voice is light, but Gon can see the worry clouding his eyes.  Gon’s eyes follow Killua’s arms to find the other’s nails broken, some of them ripped off completely, others half-there and hanging by a little flap of skin. The flesh beneath them is red and livid and glistening. _

_ “Killua… you’re hurt.” _

_ “So’re you.” Killua scans Gon’s chest, his stomach, his legs. “Probably worse. I’ll—” _

_ “Killua, I'm fine. I’ve lived with this for years.” It’s a lie, but it’s good enough for now. “Go wash your hands.” _

_ Killua opens his mouth, then closes it again, and crouches biting his lip, a sheen of wetness glistening in his red-rimmed eyes. _

“Go.”

_ Killua doesn’t meet his eyes as he stands. “Stay here. I’ll be  _ right _ back.”  _

_ Killua doesn’t turn around to see Gon watching his retreating back.  _

***

His nails are devastated, Killua realizes as soon as he gets to the stream. Their knife-shape tips have been torn into crags, some split down the center, others webbed with cracks. The skin below them is barely starting to scab. 

In this state, his fingers could slice through nothing.

Through no one.

_ I’m free. _

As he watches, the eastern sky lightnes from navy to cerulean, and finally to gold. Killua washes his hands thoroughly, taking care to scrub away the dark, vile-scented remnants of what had once been Gon’s arm, and then sets about bandaging his fingertips.

The white dressing turns red.

_ His  _ blood—and he wishes, in some corner of his heart, that these wounds would never heal, that this blood would be  _ his,  _ his and his alone—

“Killuaaaaa!”

Deep, heavy footsteps—and Killua whips around to see Gon hurrying out of the trees, towards the stone-lined bank of the stream. His brows are draw, knitted with concern. “Are your hands okay?”

_ Damn him.  _

Killua turns away, studying the creek. _ Why are you acting like you care?  _ Now _ , after what happened in the village?  _

The wind echoes through the trees. Killua feels a leaf land on the nape of his neck. 

The sun breaks the horizon, flooding the two of them in blinding, brilliant light: light that dances on the stream and paints the leaves a lively, golden green; light that sets each drop of dew glittering like a thousand scattered diamonds.

Gon doesn’t stop holding Killua in his gaze.

“Forget about me.” Killua has to force the bite into his voice. “What about  _ you?” _

“I’m fine.” Gon’s aura swirls, then retreats as if to hide. Beneath his beard, Killua can see him purse his lips. 

“You were bleeding.”

“It’s just… nothing, really. I  _ told  _ you I was fine.”

Gon crosses to sit beside him on the riverbank, his shoulders slumped, lower lip pushed into a pout. “Killua cares too much.”

His breath catches.  _ I’m just. Making up for all the years when I couldn’t. _

_ It’s only natural to care about your friends. _

He looks down at his injured hands, and then to Gon’s strong back, and imagines the two of them, connected, every scrap of kindness he knows in that one touch. “Well,  _ someone _ has to. Since you don’t seem to care too much about yourself.”

“Mm.”

When Killua looks again, Gon’s head is bowed.

“Tell me. Where were you bleeding? And why?”

No answer.

“I  _ said, tell _ me!”

“It’s no big deal, Killua.” Gon’s voice is inflectionless. “Just my curse.”

_ “ _ The one the faerie put on you?”

Gon swallows hard. 

And nods.  

Desperately, Killua’s eyes rake over Gon, searching for any sign of a woundand finding none.  _ I  _ knew  _ he was cursed,  _ Killua worries, his thoughts whirling,  _ but is it a  _ fatal _ curse? Or just something that happens occasionally? _

_ And why did it take effect just now?  _ Killua says out loud, “It’s been five years since she cursed you, right? Has anything like this happened since?”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” 

“Don’t dodge the  _ question,  _ idiot. Do you bleed like that often? Or is this something that only happens occasionally? Or never.”  _ I mean, me asking you this is me assuming that you’re being honest... _

_ You’re a really bad liar, aren’t you? Everything you say, you look like you’re trying to escape. You want to keep something—something about yourself—a secret. But what?  _

“It… happens sometimes, yeah.” Gon doesn’t meet his eyes.

His hair spills over into the stream where it’s pushed by the water to wind its way around Killua’s ankles, thick and dark and so slicked with oil it leaves a film on the surface.  _ Gross.  _ Killua grimaces, then hops onto the bank, freeing his feet from the entangling strands. “How often?”

“I don’t really know… not really good with time. She’s dead, right? The-“ Killua sees the veins bulge on the back of his hand as he clenches his fist. “The  _ faerie.” _

Killua’s breath comes out a sharp hiss. “Yes.”  _ Now,  _ please,  _ still be the kind you—the one I saw— _

_ “ _ That’s not right.”

Killua starts.

Gon’s voice is thick and dark as he says, “That’s not right. Because she can still move.”

Killua blinks. “Look. Gon. I know what I saw. Trust me, she’s  _ dead.  _ She doesn’t even have a  _ head  _ anymore. Pretty hard to live without a brain, though some people do manage.”

Gon hunches over again, even tighter this time, his hand gripping his knee hard enough to bruise. His hair falls in his face, hiding his eyes from Killua’s view. “She’s dead.”

Killua can offer him no response.

“She’s dead,” Gon continues hollowly, eyes the color of tarnished coins staring at nothing. “But she can still move.” Gon’s voice cracks. He sniffs, just a little. “So…  _ why— _ ” 

And then Gon is  _ sobbing,  _ face buried him his knees as his shoulders are wracked with great, heaving jolts—and Killua is beside him, one arm draped across his shoulders, the other hand encircling Gon’s wrist; and heat blossoms under Killua’s skin at the touch.  “Gon, Gon,  _ breathe.  _ It’s okay. I’m here.”

He feels Gon relax—and then a sudden weight as Gon leans against him, his head on Killua’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut. “H- _ hey-“  _ Killua starts, but Gon does not move, and Killua lets him rest against him, a blush on his cheeks. 

Killua turns, just slightly, to look at Gon, eyes closed in feigned sleep, though his brow is still creased with worry. The morning sun through the leaves traces gentle patterns on the warm brown of his skin.

_ And that boy somehow got the strength to take the head of an Arcknight. With nothing more than his fists. _

When Killua had first heard the legend at thirteen, he’d been enthralled, captivated by the story of this great hero, this brutal monster who’d grown from a boy into a man in one night. He’d waited in stark awe as the storyteller finished, heart swimming with the desire to go home and tell it to—whoever  _ she _ was; waited patiently until the night grew long enough for him to tell it to her, their voices hushed in the moonlight.

But  _ now… _

_ He wasn’t a hero. _

_ Or a monster. _

_ He was just a boy. _

Right at the crease of Gon’s eyelid, the skin is thin enough to let delicate blue veins show through. Killua’s eyes trace the path of those veins, now, seeking to memorize. To hold.

_ A man now,  _ Killua thinks as they sit, watching the sun climb, the brook babbling at their feet. 

Or is he?

What even made someone a man, anyway? Someone grown?

_ He has the body of one—but then, he did when he was thirteen, so that can’t be it… _

Killua looks down at his hands, at the bloodstained dressings, the folds of his palm, the veins on his wrist.

_ Am I a man now? _

_ What kind of a man? One like my father? One like Knuckle and Shoot? Or like Gon? _

So lost in thought is he, he doesn’t even notice the blood seeping downstream.   



	14. Chapter 14

Does he think I’m asleep?

_ Gon can feel the slow rise and fall of his star man’s breath, the steady throb of his heartbeat just below. Instinctively, he nuzzles just a little bit closer, praying to all the gods he knows and some he doesn’t that Killua won’t mind. _

_ Killua’s heartbeat quickens slightly, his skin warming at the contact—and, in spite of everything, Gon smiles. _

_ A coolness on his skin as a cloud crosses the sun. _

She’s dead.

She’s dead, and  _ Kite  _ is. But I’m not.

Why am I not?

Why are you so kind to me?  _ he thinks to Killua _ . I don’t deserve it…

***

_ I have to talk to him, don’t I. _

The thought weighs on his mind, the circulating memories of their disastrous trip to the village pressing down on the morning’s tranquility. Gon is most definitely  _ not _ asleep, he’s worked out, with the help of a certain conspicuous lack of snoring—but he looks so peaceful he might as well be.

A sick feeling climbs up his throat as he remembers the promise he’s made.  _ Once we get back to the cave. Then I’ll talk to him. _

Even through the new clothes, he can feel Gon’s body heat. It seeps through that paper-thin barrier to touch Killua’s skin, to touch against his blade of a body, reminding Killua that he’s never truly alone—and, if Killua closes his eyes, he can see the two of them, alone together in this beautiful forest, the rest of the world and the walls around them both fallen away.

_ But I couldn’t just keep my  _ fucking  _ mouth closed. _

_ I couldn’t resist driving him away.  _

Gon is leaving him, Killua knows.

First the tree. Then the village.

And now  _ this,  _ this moment where he sits with Gon resting on his shoulder, his long hair spilling down across Killua’s lap and into the creek, only a few inches away but unreachable.  _ Will you hate me, Gon?  _  he asks silently, fighting the urge to caress Gon’s cheek, to run his fingers through Gon’s hair and comb the dirt from his beard. This close, he can hear Gon’s soft breaths, feel the slow rise and fall of his chest.

_ How do I save him?  _  he asks the waiting sky. 

A pain in his chest. 

Killua’s head is suddenly very heavy. 

The weight is gone from his shoulder.  “Hey, Killua-“ and Killua turns to look into big amber eyes stretched wide with surprise, without a pupil but human all the same. “You okay?”

“I-“ He exhales, long and slow and ragged, trying in vain to hide from Gon’s searching eyes.  _ Now’s my chance. I  _ have _ to talk to him. _

“I just-“

“Killua helps me when I’m sad. So I should help  _ him.” _

Killua snorts.  _ Well that’s  _ one _ way of putting it, I guess.  _

_ Is this what friendship is? Sitting here and comforting each other? _

_ There’s a lot of things I never knew, huh… _

Killua swallows hard. “Do you—are you going to hate me? If I say this, I mean.”

“Can’t hate you.” Gon beams. “Even with your—”

“O-okay.” Killua clears his aching throat. “Gon. Do you remember what I said to you? On the way back from the village.” 

“Um…” Gon’s eyes cloud, just for a moment, before he says, “I’m bored. Wanna do something fun?”

His words are met with a sharp poke to the cheek. “ _ Oi.  _ Quit changing the subject, idiot.”

“You’re  _ meaaaann…” _

“I’m serious. When we were in the village...” His voice wavers, just a little. “You couldn’t see your eyes. But I did.” He shivers, despite the warm morning sun. “I don’t think you recognized me.”

“Killua…” Gon whispers, and Killua turns to see him crumpling in on himself, head between his knees, hand squeezing a rock from the stream. “Why are you trying to make me feel worse about things than I already do?”

_ I was right.  _ Killua’s throat burns.  _ I  _ am  _ driving him away.  _

“I’ve… had lots of sad. Ever since Kite… no, ever since I left my home. And then Killua came.”

_ I matter to him.  _ Killua’s heartbeat quickens, a smile tugging at his lips.  _ I  _ matter.  _ To someone who’s not my family. To someone who values me beyond what I can kill.  _

_ I matter to  _ him.

Something in Killua’s heart gives a funny little jump, and he has to force down his smile. 

“But now…” Gon murmurs , his gaze downcast. “There’s a lot of sad things—a lot of scary things—living in my brain. And I... you want see them. All of them. Why?”

“There’s a lot of scary things living in my brain, too. If that helps.”

“I… I don’t want to think about it.” Gon’s voice has dwindled to a whisper. “I don’t want to think about who I thought you were.”

_ Well, you’re gonna have to,  _ Killua wants to bite, but he can’t force out the words. 

“But it’s okay, right?” Gon continues, the lightness starting to come back to his voice. “I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t hurt  _ anyone-“ _

Killua flicks him on the shoulder—half affectionately, half angrily. “You already used that line on the way home. Don’t go thinking it’s gonna work twice.”

“But really. I didn’t hurt anyone. So why can’t we move on?”

_ Because I don’t know. I don't know what’s going to happen the next time you forget who I am. I don’t know what you’re going to do, now that you know she’s dead.  _ Killua’s chest tightens, his gaze clouds. At his side, his hands rip at the grass. 

_ I don’t know which version of “you” you are. I don’t know if the light in you is ever going to come back.  _

_ And I don’t want to lose you. _

_ “ _ Because there’s no one making you kill.”

“Killua…?” 

“It’s just like I said on the way home from the village,” Killua whispers, his voice hoarse. “You weren’t like me. You never were.”

The wind echoes hollowly in the trees.

Gon bites his lip. Swallows. 

“And now that…”

“She’s dead,” Gon finishes, a sense of heavy finality in the words, as if that simple truth is the only thing he knows. “But she’s not.”

“And... here we go again,” Killua remarks lightly, one eyebrow raised. With one fingertip, he traces a spiral through the air. “It’s like we’re stuck in a conversational loop.”

“It’s not good enough,” Gon continues, voice blank. If he’s heard Killua, he gives no sign. “She’s still… still walks.”

“There  _ has  _ to be something. _ Why?  _ Why doesn’t she die?” Gon’s tone borders on a shout. He clenches his fist, his breathing coming in jagged gasps, and stares at nothing, the whites of his eyes stretched wide. 

“If I had to guess,” Killua says, “...well. Have you ever heard of Nen after death?”

Gon nods. Once. 

“I don’t know much about faerie magic—I don’t think anyone really does—but looking at the situation from the outside, I’d think it might be the same sort of concept. Her magic is lingering after her death, reanimating her corpse.” Killua’s brow furrows as he leans in to study the stream. “If—whatever phenomenon this is—works like our Nen ghosts, then there’s  _ something— _ some sort of strong emotion or desire—keeping her… aura, I guess, or soul, here in this world. And don’t ask me what it is,” he adds, catching the look of puzzlement in Gon’s amber eyes. “I have no fucking idea.”

“Magic… after death?” He hears Gon suck in a lifeless breath. “So… no matter what, she’s not going to get any deader. Than she is now.”

“Right. I didn’t kill her. I…” Something hot and hard wells up in his chest, seeming to choke him as he speaks. “I’m sorry, Gon. I couldn’t keep our promise.”

_ I couldn’t help you,  _ he thinks, blinking back tears.  _ I betrayed you. Just like my father said. _

A warm hand on the top of his head—and Killua, his heart thrumming, has to try very hard not to lean into Gon’s gentle pat. “Um, thanks. But…”

_ What about your end of the deal? You said you would stop hurting people—but that was just until I found her. _

_ Should I leave? Now? Just go somewhere else? _ he thinks desperately as Gon’s warm gaze finds his own.  _ But I already thought this though—there’s no place I  _ could  _ go—there’s no place I’d  _ rather—

“You’re fluffy,” Gon says with a cheeky grin. “Like a—”

“Would you  _ stop _ trying to change the goddamn  _ subject  _ for once in your  _ goddamn fucking life?!” _

Silence.

The brook babbles. Killua’s breath rasps. 

“Why?” Gon blinks. “You’re the best memories I’ve ever made. And I don’t want to think about the dark stuff.” He hides his eyes. “Not now.”   
“Well, you’re gonna  _ have _ to think about it,” Killua snaps, forcing down his heart. “I don't know a lot of things. I—”

“No, trust me, you’re  _ really smart—” _

“I didn’t exactly have a  _ normal _ childhood, but I know  _ this _ . I know that facing your  _ fucking  _ memories—”  _ It’s ironic, little brother. You’re telling him not to run when that’s all you’ve ever done. _

Killua grits his teeth.  _ Shut up. _

_ I don’t want you in my head. _

He’s standing, he realizes—Gon has to look  _ up _ at him now. “Facing my memories what?”

“I...”

“My memories  _ what?” _

_ Look at you, thinking you can talk and have him understand. What are you afraid of? That he’ll hurt you? Someone else? Why are you judging him? Why are you pretending to be a saint? We both know— _

_ “Killua.”  _  Gon’s voice has darkened—and Killua watches as he stands, brow knit so hard that the veins bulge. “You’re trying to say something to me. But I don’t get your words. I don’t know if they're words I don't know, but—”

_ You’re betraying him. You betrayed him from the minute you opened your fucking mouth on the way home from the village. And now you’re betraying him again. Because it’s true. _ _   
_ “Shut the hell up.”

_ You really do ruin everything good that happens to you, don’t you? _

“Killua?” Gon steps back, eyes full of hurt. “Why-”

“I just-” His head hurts. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“But there’s no one else here.”

“I  _ know.”  _  He rubs his temples, heedless of the pain from his torn nails. It does nothing to ease his aching skull. “I was just… being stupid, that’s all.” 

“Unh…” Gon’s brow crinkles again, this time more from confusion than fear. “Okay, Killua. Wanna go fishing agai—”

“You’re changing the subject. You’re changing the  _ fucking  _ subject.  _ Again.  _ After I told you to fucking  _ listen.” _

“Killua, that’s not-”

“You’re really childish, you know? All the legends said you were thirteen. But you’re acting more like _five_.” Heedless of Gon’s hitching breath, Killua continues in mocking falsetto, _“Killua, let’s do something fun. Killua, I wanna go play. Killua, you’re fluffy._ _Every time_ I tr-“

“Well maybe I _wouldn’t_ if you would just say something _clearly_ _for once!_ ”

Gon’s shout rings out, echoing off the creek.

His breathing is ragged. 

Killua’s leapt into a tree several yards away.  

Gon continues, eyes sparking with hurt, “You keep trying to tell me something, but every time you try and _ say  _ it, your aura goes all dark. You gulp away your words and your eyes are sad and you look like you're somewhere really far away. Somewhere where I can’t reach.” He swallows hard. “You’re saying all these things, but I can’t hear  _ any _ of it right! And then  _ you-“  _ he grits his teeth—“stand here and get mad at  _ me  _ for not somehow  _ knowing  _ what you’re trying to say! I can’t-“

_ Because I can’t lose you,  _  Killua thinks in the farthest despairing corner of his heart. “Well,  _ you’re  _ the one who said it doesn’t mean anything to me.” 

Even from this distance, he can hear Gon’s quiet gasp at his words, see those amber eyes brimming with hurt. “Killua…” He looks down at his feet, before bringing his eyes back up to meet Killua’s. “I don’t know what I should do better. If you never  _ tell  _ me.”

“Well,  _ guess,”  _  Killua snaps. “You’re not  _ that _ dumb.”

Killua opens his mouth, then closes it again. A bee buzzes close to his ear.

And with that, he is gone, the only sign of his presence the swish of the undergrowth closing behind him.

***

I miss him.

_ Gon sits cross-legged on a grassy hilltop, watching the fluffy Killua-shaped clouds make castles in the sky. Seed heads brush his knees. _

_ It’s a lovely morning. _

I miss him.

_ Grass breaks in his fist. He tilts his head back, looks up at the sky. _

_ He wonders when he’ll see Killua there. _

_ *** _

I never told him, did I? The truth about my curse.

_ Unbidden, the images fill his mind—Killua, pupils blown with horror as he would stagger back, his mouth a round O. His blue eyes, heavy with hurt. _

_ How do you say it, Gon wonders, stretched out on the grass, limbs spread wide. How did you go up to the person who’s given you your life back and say  _ I don’t want it?  _ Say  _ it’s too late?

_ He blinks—and then, he is thirteen again, thirteen again and trapped in the body of a man twice his age. _

He paces the courtyard, footsteps almost strong enough to crack the flagstones. If he tried, he could, he knows. Gon’s hair falls heavily behind him, snagging on the cracks, catching dirt and bugs in its greasy strands. “It won’t be long,” he promises, trying in vain to sink his voice through the stones. “I know I left you behind, but… Kite, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll see you  _ soon...” _

_ He hadn’t know, not at the time, just how long it would take to die. _

And now I’m here.

_ He thinks back, just a few days this time, to a rainy afternoon spent in his cave, Killua watching his back as the world outside turned the color of pewter.  _ I scared you,  _ he had said, and waited, and  _ waited, _ until finally Killua’s voice had came. _

Yes. You did.

_ He is a haunted person, he knows.  _ Anyone  _ would be, he figures, if they spent the last five years  with no companions but ghosts— _ but I’m doing something wrong aren’t I—

_ What else was he supposed to do? With the memories that scoured his mind? _ _   
_ _ How else was he supposed to fight? _

_ And then there was Killua, standing beside him, starlit. Killua, who’d seen his monstrous body and said nothing beyond  _ you’re a person, aren’t you...

_ Who hadn’t run, not after Gon had killed him three times, not after he’d killed someone else, a whole _ lot  _ of _ someone else _ s. _

_ Killua had been his map—he’d thought, somewhere in what little shreds of a  _ self _ he still had,  that if he followed Killua, he would find his way back to reality— _ but I don’t deserve that, do I?

And besides, I made a promise to Kite.

This is okay—no,  _ great _ . If Killua doesn’t care about me, then he won’t miss me if I die.

I won’t have to tell him about my curse.

_ He does not often feel cold; not with this body—but as he lies there in the beautiful spring sunlight, wildflowers bobbing by his side in the breeze, he curls up, hugging himself as gooseflesh rises on his skin.  _

_ *** _

_ I miss him. _

“Squall?”

The mare pricks her ears.

“Did I just drive him away for good?”

The only response is the wind.

Killua rises, then goes to stand beside his steed,  running one hand through her mane at the withers. “Is this what it means to care about someone?” he asks softly, blinking his dry eyes. “Being unable to reach him?  Waiting for the day he loses himself? I…”

He leans against her shoulder heavily, helplessly, his eyes falling shut.  _ I mean—that’s the kind of love I knew from my brothers. But that… _

He’d laughed, he realizes. He’d laughed with a friend.

He’d laughed with Gon.

Was this friendship, then, this hot swell of emotion he held in his chest?

Was it love?

Hot, salty tears glisten beneath his eyelids. “How do I  _ save _ him?”

***

If I die—I won’t get to see Killua again, will I? He’s going somewhere peaceful. Somewhere beautiful.

_ The thought comes to him after hours of lying in the grass—how many, he doesn’t know. The sun has moved. The air is hotter now.  _

_ That much, he knows.  _

_ He feels hollow inside. _

...Is there a way for me? Some way I can tell him about—

_ About the thoughts scouring his brain, about memories and nightmares and rage. Killua would hate him, he knows, with only a single word. _

Figure it out,  _ he had said.  _ You’re not  _ that  _ dumb. 

I am,  _ he thinks helplessly, and watches the Killua-in-his-mind bow his head.  _ I…

_ He had said it, over and over again, said  _ I want to be stronger;  _  he had screamed it to the sky, he had journeyed to the ends of the earth chasing that shapeless thing called  _ strength,  _ he had spent countless nights awake as the sharp, stabbing pain from his battered body ravaged his mind. He hadn’t cared, then. He’d used those nights to watch the stars, thinking about his father and gleaming swords crossed in combat and the wave at the end of the world… _

_ Thinking, when he’d let himself, of Mito and Grandma Abe and the waves on the beach he’d called home. _

I want to be stronger.

_ He’s taken the head of a faerie knight, he’s ripped boulders from mountainsides, he’s slain countless knights with nary a scratch. _

Strong enough to defeat the memories.

_ He remembers: Killua’s eyes darkening as he said  _ don’t tell me about your relatives, I’ll get jealous,  _ the way his lip had quivered at the words  _ what would you do if I told you what was done to me…

_ Another hour, another day. The woman at the base of the tree is red. He’s realized too late. _

Because you’d be horrified. Afraid. You’d think I was a monster.

_ She hadn’t had white hair because she was Pitou. _

You’d think I was a monster.

_ She’d had white hair because she was  _ old.

You think I’m a monster.

_ Would Killua know? Would Killua have an answer for the memories that ripped apart his mind? _

_ Was  _ that  _ what he had been trying to say? _

***

It’s not long before Killua’s exhaustion wins out, leaving him crumpled on the forest floor, curled up in fetal position, one hand grasping at the leaves. His eyes are squinted tightly shut.

He sleeps fitfully, when he sleeps at all. His dreams are still of Gon—Gon, and Illumi, and Illumi’s voice saying  _ you’re running from him, aren't you. _

_ You’ve done well, little brother. You ran when I told you to. You betrayed him when I said to. You were even kind enough to ruin his thoughts of you, so that he won’t miss you when you come home. You’ve done everything just right. _

_ You weren't made for friends. _

Killua lies motionless as his brother’s voice swarms his mind.

_ He’s a monster, you know? He never truly cared— _

“Haven’t we been over all this before?” Killua mutters weakly, lying there among long-dead leaves. “You keep saying that I’m not his friend. It’s getting a bit repetitive.”

_ As long as you resist.  _ There is no  _ little brother  _ following the words, and Killua wonders if this voice is not Illumi’s but his own.  _ As long as you deny what you were born for. _

_ “Okay,”  _ Killua hisses, hoping to sound stronger than he actually does. “I  _ know.  _ I  _ get  _ it. I was born as a weapon.”

He feels something die within his soul as he says, “Nothing more.”

***

Killua,  _ he wants to ask,  _ where are you now,  _  but he can't find the words. _

_ And besides, there’s no Killua for him to say it to. _

_ Slowly, heavily, as if pulled by puppet strings, he rises. His star man’s scent is faint—almost  _ nothing,  _ really—but it’s enough. Just enough. _

Killua… I’m coming back. 

If I can.


	15. Chapter 15

_ Where do I go now? _

_ Where could I go without him? _

If his brothers were here, Killua knows what would happen next—he would kill Gon, and save the villagers, and return home the hero he’s never been.

He would lose his best friend. 

He would be alone.

_ If only I’d been stronger. If only I’d tried harder to kill her.  _

_ If only I hadn’t run. _

He stands, on stiff, aching legs, gathers Squall, and starts off toward the town.  _ I left my shit there—good place to go, I guess. _

_ For now. _

He does not look back.

***

_ His star man’s steps lead toward the town. _

_ Angry eyes, angry eyes and  _ rocks _ and the words _ I deserve this  _ screaming through his mind— _

What are you doing now, Killua? Are you going home?

_ He gathers up what little he knows of Killua’s life—his  _ real  _ life, not this dusty half-life that Gon’s condemned himself to. Killua is nobility, he knows, and an assassin too. Beyond that… _

Don’t tell me about your relatives. I’ll get jealous.

I don’t really know what he’s been through, do I? I’m only guessing.

Only hoping…

_ (That Killua would— _ could— _ be his map once more.) _

_ *** _

He’ _ s _ almost to the village when he feels him—that vast pool of aura, twisted and jagged, brimming with hurt and fear...

Like a child or a hound, though Killua knows the man following him is neither. Unbidden, he can feel his pulse beginning to race within his cage of ribs.

_ Gon… _

A crackling in the undergrowth as Killua reaches the lip of the hill—and Killua whirls to see Gon crashing through the forest, breathless and panting, eyes stretched wide with hurt. “Killua!”

Gon takes his hand.

Killua does not move.

_ You came back,  _ he does not say.

Gon’s eyes find his own—and Killua, his heart jumping up his throat, realizes this is  _ almost _ the same spot where Gon had first taken his hand, before their disastrous trip to the village, before he’d stared into Gon’s once-warm eyes and seen  _ nothing… _

Gon is still holding his hand. 

Neither one of them speaks for a long time.

“Killua, I—“

The only sound is their hearts.

“I can’t just let you go.”

Killua stares at his feet. “I gathered.”

Even without looking, he can  _ feel  _ Gon’s aura change, feel the crack of sadness running through it.

_ But I did this. I put up this wall. _

“I want to talk to you.”

“Oh, so  _ now  _ you do.”

Gon shifts, stepping away from him and bowing his head, but he still doesn’t let go of Killua’s hand. He opens his mouth if he’s about to speak.

Instinctively, Killua pulls his hands away. The sound of Gon’s breathing changes, just a little, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gon’s shoulders slump. “You don’t want me, do you.”

His voice is so soft that it takes Killua a second to realize he’s even spoken at all.

“No! No—that’s not—” Killua stammers, skittering back, his feet rustling the leaves. “It’s just—ah— _ Shit.” _

“It’s okay,” Gon mumbles, his head still bowed. “I don’t want me either.”

Killua’s throat closes up, his heart dropping.  _ Same here, I guess. _

He remembers the first night they’d spoken, remembers seeing Gon’s fist smeared with gore and his soft voice saying  _ people try and kill me a lot, though... _

_ Same goes for me, I guess you could say. _

_ We’re alike, aren’t we? _

“You don’t have to say anything, Killua. I know.”

He watches as Gon turns away from him and sits down with a heavy  _ thud. _

_ Gon, no, you’ve got it all wrong _ .  _ I don’t know who I am if I’m not by your side. _

_ I don’t know where I’d go. _

Gon is not audibly sobbing, but he buries his face in his hand all the same.

“Hey…” Killua breathes, starting towards Gon with fumbling steps, “I—I never wanted to hurt you.”  _ Honestly. I never wanted to hurt  _ anyone _. _

_ Then I guess you’re doing a pretty bad job of it. _

Gon’s hand tightens around his cheek. Blue bruises form beneath the skin.

“Gon. Look at me.” Killua reaches out and grabs Gon’s wrist, as gently as if her were touching a flame forces down the tremble in his voice. “I know this sort of shit is hard to talk about. But...” Invisible hands squeeze Killua’s throat. “Everything that happened in the village—“

“When I…” Gon swallows. “Forgot you.” 

“Right.”

Silence falls.

“I’m sorry.”

Killua says nothing, his fingers itching to take Gon’s hand. He walks over to sit beside Gon, his footsteps unearthly loud on the leaves. 

The sun, beating down on their backs.

Wind rustling the leaves—and then a warm hand on his chin, tilting it up so his eyes meet Gon’s. Killua pulls away, his heart fluttering in his chest. “Okay. What the  _ hell.” _

Gon whispers, his voice low, “I don’t want to forget you.” He swallows. “Not again.”

“So you know.” It’s a relief, in some small way, that Gon realizes what he’s done; that that moment when Gon had taken his hand wasn’t a lie.

“Mm.” Gon closes in on himself, his shoulders tensing as he turns away from Killua.

“When we were talking by the stream… did you really not know what I was saying? Or were you just playing dumb?”

Absentmindedly, Gon’s hand toys with the hem of his shorts. “I don’t—I don’t think I wanted to know.”

Killua opens his mouth, but Gon cuts him off before he can speak. “Killua… do you ever have bad memories?”

Killua chokes back a laugh.  _ Sure thing. I’m probably the expert on them. _

“The sort that make you forget about everything.”

_ Does he want to know? Everything that happened to me? _

Killua closes his eyes and tries to picture the scene: himself standing before Gon, a humorless smirk on his face as he says _ yeah, I was raised as an assassin. Yep, I’ve probably killed far more people than you have. I didn’t train to be able to take my lightning; my parents just shocked me until I didn't notice the pain. They whipped me, too—oh, and poisoned me, and broke my fingers slowly, one at a time… _

_ And I did what they said. I killed who they wanted me to. Again and again and again. _

Chills race down his spine. He hugs his knees, swallowing down the burning sourness that fills his throat.

“Killua, are you alright?”

_ You care so much. About  _ me.  _ About someone who was only seconds away from killing an infant. Who felt guilty when he  _ didn’t.

_ But then, you’ve got a darkness of your own, don’t you?  _  he thinks viciously, sucking in a breath, pulling his mouth into a thin line.  _ You’ve killed people. Probably innocent people. You didn’t care when I explained I was an assassin.  _

_ I guess we deserve each other. _

“She’s dead, you know,” Killua hazards.

“Right.” Gon’s voice is flat, expressionless, as if he hasn't slept properly in days. “She’s dead.”

“So I don’t know…” Killua swallows, chews his lip. “I don’t know who you are.” The words themselves strangle him. “I promised I’d kill her for you. But she was already dead. I was…” He swallows down the flood of  _ I’m useless, I betrayed you, I’m  _ sorry.  _ This isn’t about me right now. _

He has to blink several times before his eyes are clear. “I told you you would stop hurting others, right? As my payment. For finding her.” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Well guess what. I fucking found her.”

“Is  _ that  _ what you were trying to say?” Gon says in sad, shocked tones, and Killua hears his breath hitch with unshed tears. “That I  _ like  _ hurting people?”

_ “Well,”  _ Killua snarks, “I have  _ shockingly _ little evidence to the contrary.” 

“I’m  _ not _ a monster!” Gon shouts—but there’s no fire in it, and Killua watches as he leans forwards, hunched over his knees. “I’m not like the Troupe or Hisoka or— _ or _ —” And then he is sobbing again, his shoulders shaking as tears spill down his cheeks.

The hot slick of regret that rises within Killua’s throat nearly takes his breath away.  _ Gon… _

Almost without thinking, he reaches out and puts one hand on Gon’s broad back. Gon’s skin is just as warm as he remembers, warm and sweaty and earthy, and so,  _ so  _ real…

Gon relaxes, his sputtering breaths finally starting to slow. He raises his head, his amber eyes wide and glistening with tears. “I don’t like hurting people, Killua,” he says, his voice choked and sounding very far away. “But maybe I don’t…  _ not _ like it enough, if that makes sense…”

Killua does not remove his hand. Instead, he presses the slightest bit firmer, tracing soothing circles on Gon’s back, hoping against hope that Gon will feel him and know his star man is here. “You’re not the only one here who’s done things he regrets.”

“Assassin.”

“Yup. Assassin.”

“But it’s not the memories. That make you hurt people.”

Killua swallows back a lifetime’s worth of memories: men and women stripped down to blood and muscle,  fat and bone and fluid, all painting his hands; a lifetime's worth of beatings and hairline fractures in his skull, of retching on poison long into the night, and burns and whips and countless days spent in the castle courtyard, watching the other children playing, all the while stubbornly  refusing to admit to the loneliness that filled his heart.  _ But it’s not like they don’t hurt.  _ “The memories aren’t making  _ you  _ do anything either,” he counters, stubbornly refusing to meet his giant’s eyes. 

“Yes they are.”

“No, they’re  _ not,”  _ Killua snaps. “You think the memories that live in your brain are  _ forcing  _ you to beat people to shreds? That they’re taking your fist and slamming it into innocent people so you can say ‘oops, it wasn’t  _ me,  _ it was the boogeymen in my brain’?”

Gon is oddly silent, and once again, Killua wonders whether he’s gone too far. “Gon, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t say you're sorry. If you don’t mean it.” Gon pauses, swallows, drops his gaze to the fallen leaves. “That’s not good.”

Killua sighs. “Okay,  _  fine.  _ We’ve had terrible lives. Horrible ones. We’re dealing with it terribly—“ In his mind, he can hear his parents, his brother— _ why aren't you grateful? After everything we  _ did _ for you… _

_ Okay fine, I’m an ungrateful little shit who just  _ has  _ to ruin his relationship with the only friend he’s ever made. Got it. Can we move on now? _

“But... “ His voice sounds odd, like it’s someone else moving his mouth, his tongue, his lips, someone else forcing the air out of his lungs. “We’re not children anymore.”

“Mm.”

“That’s all you have to  _ say? ‘Mm’?!” _

Gon falls silent once more.

“Listen,” Killua snaps, his already-frayed patience wearing thin. “You were thirteen. I know. but you aren’t now.”

“But I don’t know what I should do.” What’s in Gon’s eyes seems much more helpless than a boy of thirteen. “I don’t know how to fight.”

“How to fight  _ what?” _

“The memories,” Gon whispers. “I’m just. So sad. So angry. And I don’t know what else I could  _ do…  _ what else I could  _ be…” _

_ You’re talking to the assassin. The weapon.  _

_ The person who was born to kill. _

_ Gon,  _ he thinks, the only sound the desperate hammering of his heart,  _ how long can I stay with you? _

_ How long will you have me? _

“You have white hair.”

“Oh,  _ really?  _ I hadn’t noticed.”

If Gon picks up on his barb, he gives no sign. “Like her.”

_ The empty air spinning above him, long-dead fingers of a corpse tangled in his hair as the moon broke free of the clouds… Oh.  _

_ I’m not her,  _ he tries to say, but the words turn to dust before he can speak.

“Like Kite.”

“Kite…?”

“He was…” Gon sniffs. “My mentor. I guess. like...” His face brightens, though tears still gleam in his eyes. “He taught me all sorts of things—how to fight and make my Nen better and all about these different bugs and  _ plants _ and stuff, and it was all  _ so awesome,  _ and we went all over the place and saw all  _ sorts _ of different things, like this beach that glowed blue at night just like the  _ stars _ , and this cave full of ice that never melts and flowers that smelled like meat and—I wanted to see the wave at the end of the world but…” His eyes cloud over once more. “I never knew my father, not really, he was supposed to be this amazing legendary hero. But we never met.” 

Gon says the words matter-of-fact, with the sense of a very heavy book being slammed shut to gather dust. 

“But for a while,” Gon begins again, this time in muted tones, “it was It was like he—Kite— _ was _ my dad? He taught me how to talk to animals so they would listen, he told me about my dad. He looked out for me, during the war with the faeries…”

_ The war where you lost yourself. _

He looks at Gon, sitting by his side but so far away.

A grown man, yet still so small—and Killua will not,  _ can _ not think of him holding Gon, of his own body pressed up against Gon’s shoulders, his back and chest, their warmth intermingling to remind Gon he’s never alone.

_ I’m here. As long as you want me to be. _

“He’d like you, Killua. At least I hope he would.”

Killua swallows mutely—and squeezes Gon’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You never knew him.”

“Mm. You describe him well enough, though.” Heedless of the scratch of the undergrowth, Killua flops on his back, hands folded behind his head in a makeshift pillow. Through the trees, he watches the distant white puffs of clouds. “Well, regardless. I thought we were having a conversation.”

“About my memories,” Gon says, the words barely more than a mumble.

“About the memories.”

Gon is silent for a long time.  “How do you fight it? The bad stuff in your brain.”

Killua blinks, sits up, his movements tense with surprise.  _ Well, mostly, I don’t. I fight, and I hear my brother’s voice in my brain. I’m sent to kill a target, and it feels like I’m outside myself. Nothing is real, and everything feels like it’s behind glass—wait, you wouldn’t know what glass _ is _ , would you? You were a commoner.  _

For some reason, he wants to laugh.

“Killua?”

Killua shrugs, stares aimlessly down at the fallen leaves. “Yeah, Gon, I’m still here.”

“...Thanks.”

_ We’re alike. We’re both searching for redemption.  _

_ Searching, but not finding it. At all.  _

Distantly, wildly, he wonders if Gon can feel his racing pulse.  _ Gon… are you thinking like this right now? _

_ Do you feel this?  _

“About the memories—“ he exhales, long and slow—“Well. I just try and take a deep breath. Remind myself that my f-” He swallows. “That the people I have those dark memories of aren’t here.”  _ And sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. _

_ I have nightmares, you know? I’m a terrible sleeper. My parents wanted someone ready to wake at a moment’s notice, so they would wait until I was asleep, then send a servant to wake me. Sometimes I’d wake up with a wet rag over my nose and mouth, sometimes it would be the fireplace poker branding me—and when I was younger, I’d run off to some far corner of the castle grounds to hide. To this day, I  _ still  _ can't sleep close to someone else. _

He pictures Gon’s horrified expression, and feels his world crumble, just a bit. “So I guess, that’s what you have to do.” The words sound lame, empty, even to his own ears.

In the silence that follows, they can hear the sounds of the town, just below this hill—a dog barking, drunken voices singing, a baby crying. Life.

“Hey, Killua?”

“Hm?”

“Can you shock me?”

_ “What?” _

“With your lightning.”

“Why the  _ hell—“ _

“Because your lightning is  _ yours—“ No it’s not—“ _ and—” There’s a seriousness with the weight of mountains in Gon’s voice as he says, “I don’t want to forget. Not again.”

_ My lightning is mine. _

Killua looks down at his hands, at the swollen heat of his broken nails, and tries to believe the words. “Who else would you think my lightning belongs…” 

_ Mine _ .

_ Not theirs. _

Mine.

“It’s a good plan, isn’t it? No one else has lightning like yours—“  _ That’s where you’re wrong.  _ “—and besides, when we went running that day, it tickled. And I’ll always remember that moment because it tickled. And you...” Gon smiles, though his amber eyes are bright with tears. “You made me feel alive.”

Killua’s heart almost jumps out of his chest.

“So, if you ever see me going all dark like that again, just give me a little shock. And I’ll remember you. I’ll find my way back.”

And  _ somewhere _ , in some little corner of his heart, Killua wants to believe Gon’s words, wants it more than he can ever have dreamed. “...Okay.”

“Yay!”

Once more, Killua forces the darkness back to his voice. “...You’re not planning on hurting anyone, are you?”

“No. Not unless it’s a fight.” Gon swallows hard. “I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

_ Me neither. _

Gon takes Killua’s hand; this time, neither of them shies away. “I don’t know how to be better. I don’t know how to be a person.” 

_ Neither do I. _

“But… you’re a better person than me.”

_ You’re wrong, Gon.  _

“So I’m counting on you, Killua. To help.”

_ He trusts me. With  _ this.

Killua turns his head to gaze at Gon’s profile, at the strong slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the amber eyes lit with determination—and something that Killua imagines is hope.

_ He trusts me. _

_ He  _ wants _ me. _

_ He wants me and I want him. _

Some part of Killua’s mind knows that he should descend to the village to gather up his forgotten supplies. The bigger part tells him he should stay right  _ here,  _ feeling Gon’s pulse through their connected hands, watching the lazy clouds drift through the sky.

The latter part wins.

***

_ When they walk back to the cave— _ their  _ cave—that night, the stars shine bright and full and Killua-like, and crickets sing, and the air tastes sweet. Killua follows behind him, small mountain of  _ stuff _ in his arms from the village: bread and dried fruits and maple sugar, a fresh change of clothes. Bandages. Soap.  _

_ A thousand things that Gon’s forgotten. _

_ If he closes his eyes, he almost seems real. _

_ They reach the cave, and step inside, and Killua sets down his burden, scrambling about in  a vain effort to prevent his newly acquired goods from spilling all over the cave floor. Once he’s gathered his belongings into something resembling a pile, he stands up, then sits back down again with a purposeless air. “Well, we have food, I guess. Soap. And clothes.” _

_ it’s too dark inside the cave to see much of anything, but Gon feels Killua’s embarrassment radiating off him in waves. “Here. For you.” _

_ “Me?” _

_ “No,” Killua says dryly, and Gon imagines he is smiling, “I’m talking to my invisible friend Bonbon. Of  _ course  _ I’m talking to you, dumbass.” The words end in a breathy, affectionate laugh. _

_ Gravel crunching, footsteps slapping against mud—and then a blue-white flash, and Gon and Killua find themselves enfolded in the warm light of a candle. The shadows and light play across Killua's face, sketching out the curve of his lips, his eyes so brilliantly blue in the golden light. _

_ There’s that feeling again, like butterflies swarming his gut. _

_ The golden light around them reminds Gon of nothing so much as the first night beside Killua’s campfire, when Killua had given him back his words. But Killua isn't that faraway star man, the one he’d chased with the curiosity of a wild wolf. This Killua is the Killua he knows; this Killua with his kindness, his patience, his elegant pride. His prickly tongue, and the way he hadn’t run, and the shadows behind his eyes when his past had came up. _

_ He hadn't known Killua that night. He’d wanted to, but he hadn’t known him. _

_ He still doesn't know him. Not enough. _

_ “Um, Gon?” _

_ “Hmm?” _

_ Killua ducks his head, his silken hair falling in his face. “You were. Sorta staring.”  _

It’s only ‘cause you’re pretty,  _ he wants to say. But he can’t. _

_ “Anyway—” he watches as Killua quite visibly clears his throat—“I brought you some clothes. So you can get out of that filthy… whatever you’re wearing. But first.” Killua ducks his gaze, a blush coloring his cheeks. “You need a bath.” _

A bath… 

_ He can remember a time when he cleaned every day, when he’d religiously followed his aunt's advice and washed himself in whatever body of water he could find.  _

But I’m not that person anymore…

_ He cannot bring himself to think,  _ am I. 

_ Killua leads him, candle in hand, up and out of the cave—and the stars shine, just as bright as always, clear and cold and distant in the velvet-blue sky above. “Here. I’ll do your hair. You do the rest.” _

_ He hands him the soaproot.  _

_ Their hands brush. _

_ Gon strips. He watches clothes he’d worn to Mitene as a boy, the last remnants of his old life crumble away, fluttering to the ground in scraps. _

_ Neither of them speak as Gon steps into the stream. He washes what he can reach with only one arm, and Killua sits beside him on the bank, fingers coming busily through Gon’s untouched hair.  _

_ The gentle tugging on his scalp grounds him, leading him back to humanity the way a line would anchor a boat. The memories flood back: his aunt washing him once when he’d hurt his arm; splashing about in a cold, clear mountain stream; the thousand different scents in a thousand different stores— _

Killua. 

Thank you.

_ He turns to look at Killua, ethereal in the starlight, and wonders what it would be like to kiss him. He remembers Mito kissing him on his forehead or nose or cheeks—he’s seen lovers kissing on the lips, trying to breathe each other, but… _

_ Dimly, he knows he’s a grown man. That this body he’ll die in is  _ almost  _ the body he would have had. And that Killua is long since grown too.  _

_ And that grown men don’t kiss. _

_ So he stays where he is, and does not think about tasting this beautiful starlit man by his side, of running eyes and hands and lips across the dip of his collarbone, the angle of his jaw and hard planes of his chest. This man who’d found him when no one else had looked, who’d called him a person, the one who’d taught him to feel again and reached through the pain, a thousand different words for devotion in his touch. _

_ Killua bandages the stump of his arm. _

_ The starlight turns his eyes full and bright and soft. Gon does not look. _

_ (It’s only later that visions dance, unacknowledged, behind his eyelids that night: Killua and him bathing together, their clothes long since cast aside, their bodies pressed together, flesh against flesh and soul against soul.) _

_ *** _

“So are you  _ sure _ you want to do this?”

“ _ Killua!”  _ Gon grins with the force of the sun itself—and motions for Killua to take him into his arms. “The last time I wanted something this badly, I was still a little kid! Come on!”

Killua chuckles. “Okay,  _ fine.”  _ He walks over to Gon, who immediately collapses into Killua’s waiting arms, a brilliant, boyish smile on his face. Killua’s arms shake slightly, more from Gon’s sheer bulk than weight.

And, of course, the newfound fact that Gon is, quite simply, a  _ very  _ attractive man.

_ More _ than attractive, actually; clean-shaven, with the smell (mostly) gone and his hair in a messy braid, Gon is  _ radiant _ . He’s not handsome in the way Killua is used to—his hand is callused and tanned instead of smooth and pale; he wears no jewels, no velvet, no perfume—but even so, he draws Killua in all the same.

This new world—the green leaves full with the promise of summer, the white and blush-pink flowers swaying at his feet, the warm sun on his back and Gon in his arms (like a bride, Killua notices)—seems entirely too beautiful to be real. Like something out of a dream, a faerie-story for children, the sort of world that would come painted on a page, the rich ink fading away as the parchment crumbled with time—but no.

This was real.

Killua smiles, and breathes, and knows that _this,_ their little slice of their reality will never have to end. “Ready?”

From where he’s nestled his head in to the crook of his arm, Gon beams up at him, his stupidly-graceful lips curving up into a wide infectious grin, the kind that lifts his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Yup!”

Killua smiles back, shamelessly,  _ idiotically _ wide, his cheeks growing sore from the stretch. “Okay…  _ Godspeed!” _

And they fly through the morning, Gon snug in Killua’s arms, his braid trailing behind them like a pennant—and they laugh, and cheer, and leap logs and splash through streams, sending strands of shining droplets leaping through the air.

And Killua breathes, and keeps breathing—and wonders, as they knock a shower of cherry blossoms loose in a dizzying, dancing swirl, if  _ this  _ is what it’s like to be home.

***

_ You abandoned me, didn’t you? _

As the young noblewoman stares down at the forest of giants, the spirit within her gives no reply.

Even though it’s late spring, the wind on the high pass that gates Mitene is still frigid. She shivers, drawing her once-fine cloak across bony shoulders scabbed and dusted from travel.

Her brother is down there. Somewhere.

She bites her lip.

“We’ll ask him once we  _ see _ him, Nanika,” she says out loud, despite knowing its uselessness.

_ We’ll ask him why he left. _

She shivers, though not from the cold, pulls her cloak tighter—and steps down towards the forest of giants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINAL CHAPTER YOOOOOO!!!!! :D I can't believe I've done this. MAJOR THANKS to my WONDERFUL betas, glittercracker, HanaKaicho and losing_sanity_fast. This fic would not be what it is without them, seriously, it would be a dumpster fire. Y'all're amazing. *-* <3
> 
> Also major major _major_ love to everyone who lidos'd commented my fic! You guys got me through some seriously rough times, so thank you to the moon and back.
> 
> And, okay: I say final chapter, but this is part one of a trilogy!!! So watch this space. I'll probably be participating in the HxH Big Bang again, though, with a different pic, and may also be doing other events. So, worst case scenario, expect part 2 in late summer/early fall 2019.
> 
> And, okay, would you guys prefer it if I published the subsequent installments as part of this fic, or made other fics and just linked them together as a series?


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